


No le voy a poner titulo pillines

by moonka



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, en realidad no es un fanfic, es un trabajo escolar, esto estará aquí poco tiempo, lo siento mucho, necesitaba un lugar donde guardarlo, para poder hacerlo pdf wiiii
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-17 02:23:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 86,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5850226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonka/pseuds/moonka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Este trabajo no debería de estar aquí, solo quería guardarlo unos días mientras me regresan mi computadora. Espero que nadie lo vea ya que lo borrare como en dos días. bai.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

It‟s six o‟clock in the morning, and Louis‟ cat is on his face.

This, Louis thinks, is probably a metaphor for the state of his life. Perhaps. He‟s not up to contemplating it further yet. He hasn‟t even had his tea.

“Off,” he says, the sound muffled by a mouthful of fur. He rolls over and dumps Duchess onto the floor, and she makes an unhappy noise as she slinks out of his room, probably to go throw up in his shoes out of spite.

Right. First day of the term, then. Starting the year off with cat hair in his mouth.

He hauls himself out of bed and puts a kettle on, almost tripping over the stack of books and scripts by his bedroom door before he finds his glasses. He should really finish going through all that shit eventually. They‟ve been piling up for almost a year now, odds and ends that he always means to get around to but never does. Zayn calls it his bird‟s nest. Zayn can fuck off, really.

It‟s been a boring summer, like the one before it and the one before that. He read a book. He bought a new set of bath towels. He spent three days marathoning trashy American reality television on his laptop and getting food delivered to his flat. He definitely did not get asked on any dates.

He leans against his kitchen counter and stares at his collection of mismatched mugs and tries not to think too hard about it.

He turns the shower on and leaves it running as he makes his tea, having learned years ago how to arrange his morning routine around the ten minutes it takes for the dodgy water heater in his building to kick in. He‟s lived here ever since he moved to Manchester when he was twenty-two, and it‟s full of the last three years of his life, the curtains from his mum and the programmes on his bookshelf. He‟s managed to slowly accumulate a respectable collection of furniture, all of which actually matches. It‟s nice enough, even if he can‟t do anything about that place on the living room wall where Niall got too drunk and pitched a beer bottle at it.

When he‟s finished his tea and dried his hair, he pulls on some pants and pads over to his closet. Dressing for work is always a bit tricky. He‟s not like Zayn, who effortlessly charms all of the mothers (and some of the fathers) just by existing. Zayn can get away with having an edgy haircut and dressing like a hipster librarian with a motorbike fetish because he‟s Zayn. And anyway, Zayn‟s an English teacher; fashion sense just makes him seem more sensitive and artistic. Louis teaches drama, which comes with different stereotypes. There‟s a fine line between artistic and camp, and wearing leather boots would take Louis right over it.

So it‟s braces and trousers and dress shoes for Louis, pressed shirts with the sleeves rolled up, the occasional sensible jumper when it‟s cold enough. It‟s a classic look, and he takes pride in it. It takes time to get his hair to that state of artfully windswept, though, so he has to set his alarm for six and try not to let the ungodly hour send him into a homicidal rage for the rest of the day.

As much as he hates getting up early and spending most of his evenings marking, he likes his job. Well, most of the time he likes his job. On the days when nobody asks him for the ten millionth time to explain something he‟s already gone over or breaks one of his lighting trusses right before a dress rehearsal, he likes his job. He likes working with kids, likes putting on shows and getting paid to talk about theater all day.

“You like your job,” he tells his reflection in the side of the toaster, waiting for his bread to brown.

He leaves Duchess with a bowl of food and a pat on the head as recompense for kicking her out of bed earlier, ignoring the icy glare she gives him in return. Then it‟s a final check in the mirror and out the door, bag slung over his shoulder. He spends the drive to school contemplating what the year might have in store for him and hoping to God for anything other than a repeat of last year‟s flu pandemic. He had to burn a set of of 800 thread count sheets. It was a dark time for everyone.

His regular parking space awaits him when he pulls into the carpark. He‟s come back during the break for meetings and workshops and days of preparing his classroom, but it still feels like he hasn‟t been back in months. The same brick buildings, the same football pitch, the same scuffed bumper of a French teacher‟s car staring back at him. Another year. Nothing at all has changed.

He happens to catch sight of Zayn as he turns down his hallway, mostly just a quiff and a cloud of cardigan-wearing gloom coming down the hall with a giant book tucked under one elbow. He‟s nursing a thermos of coffee and still seems to be half asleep, and Louis really can‟t be expected to let that grumpy face go unharassed.

“First day of school!” Louis says brightly, cuffing him on the shoulder as he passes. “Perk up, sunshine!”

Zayn scowls at him, and Louis smiles back, pleased that at least one person in the world hates mornings more than he does. “Go fuck yourself,” Zayn mumbles.

“Now, now, mind your language,” Louis teases. “We are the moulders of tomorrow, remember?”

“I‟m going to mould this book into your face,” Zayn says.

“Love you too,” Louis says, and they split apart, Zayn off to the stairs and Louis continuing down the hall to his classroom.

He and Zayn came on staff the same year and became best mates almost immediately through the shared terror of their first year in the faculty and a mutual appreciation of each other‟s fashion sense amidst a sea of tartan and beige. Zayn started out as a teaching assistant, but took over the spot when the previous English teacher retired. They‟ve since earned a bit of a reputation for mischief, which Louis‟ not sure is really fair. So maybe they‟ve been known administer field sobriety tests to random students in the hallway, and maybe they accidentally-on-purpose planted the idea of putting glitter in the air vents as a graduation prank. They both have sound alibis for the time the assistant headmaster‟s car wound up on the roof, and even if they had hypothetically been involved, it would have been all Zayn‟s idea. Hypothetically.

Their second year, Niall got hired fresh out of uni as the assistant orchestra director, and he fell in with the two of them right away. He‟s a good sort, relaxed as can be and always reliable, though he‟s generally more likely to sit and laugh at their schemes than participate in them.

Louis knows they‟re generally regarded as the “cool” teachers, the youngest ones and the ones least likely to write you up for a uniform infraction. He also knows that Zayn is “the fit one,” the one whose classes are always anxiously anticipated at the start of every new year. It‟s understandable. Louis honestly pities any unsuspecting, pubescent teen who shows up for their first day of school and is confronted with Mr. Malik reading Wordsworth with his soulful eyes and dramatic cheekbones.

Zayn‟s eyes, soulful or not, are irrelevant now, because he‟s got a full day of trying to keep a bunch of teenagers from slipping into a vegetative state while he goes over syllabi. His first year he‟d been given the typical arrangement of teaching his class in the theatre, but if there‟s one thing Louis needs it‟s his own space, and after a year of nagging the administration and being interrupted by assemblies and spelling competitions, he‟d been granted his own classroom. It‟s not much, but at least it‟s his.  
That should really be the tagline of his life, to be honest.

The students start filtering in slowly, small clusters that settle into desks at random. Louis notices a lot of familiar faces. He‟s been around long enough to have seen most of them in the halls at some point or another, and many of the ones who end up in his classes have already been in at least one of his productions. By the time the bell rings, there are only a few he doesn‟t recognize, new students or ones that managed to fly below his radar. Excellent. Always fun the first day. Nobody ever really knows what to expect from him.  
Louis shuts the door and hops up on his desk, sitting cross-legged in front of the class.

“All right,” Louis says, adjusting his glasses. “Let‟s skip the part where I tell you good morning like I‟m not already on my third cuppa and you say it back like you‟re happy to be wearing ties this early in the morning.”

A nervous sort of laugh ripples through the classroom, and Louis smiles. He forgets sometimes that he‟s actually quite good at this.

“As most of you already know, my name is Mr. Tomlinson,” he goes on. “Before anyone asks, I‟m from Doncaster, I‟m a Capricorn, I enjoy long walks to the vending machine on the third floor, and yes, McDonnell, I‟m expecting your mum to send toffee again for the night rehearsals this year.”

Another laugh. Louis feels a bit more of the tension ease out of the room.

“I‟m sure some of you are thinking this course will be an easy way to get high marks without having to do much work. It‟s okay, nothing to be ashamed of. I did it myself when I was your age,” Louis says mildly. “But I regret to inform you that if you‟re expecting to pass this class without ever cracking a book or doing your coursework, you are tragically mistaken. We‟ll be covering some of the basics of theater, learning about some of the great playwrights, practicing acting and improvisation as well as some writing. It‟s going to be fun. I swear. If you don‟t have any fun all year, you have full permission to smack me „round the head.”

Ice sufficiently broken, Louis passes out packets listing important dates for the term and explaining his marking policy. The rest of the day goes by in the same vein, and come lunchtime, Louis is feeling rather pleased with his work indeed.

There‟s more than one teacher‟s lounge in the school, but one in particular is on the same hallway as Louis‟ classroom, so naturally he claimed it as his by the end of his first month. It‟s the smallest of all of them, just a table with four chairs and a small adjoining toilet. Small, but definitely good enough, and everyone in the faculty knows that lunches there belong to Louis, Zayn, and Niall.

Louis thinks, as they sit laughing about their plans for the year around their own personal table, that his gift for expanding into the space around him is probably his most useful attribute. Starfishing, he calls it. He is a starfish.

“Obviously I‟m keeping the spring musical,” Louis tells them, “but I‟m thinking about doing a Shakespeare in the fall. What do you think?”

“I think it sounds like you‟re going to make me help you with two shows instead of one,” Niall says.

“There‟s a good man,” Louis says, patting Niall on the back. “Thank you for volunteering.”

“You‟re going to consult me on this, right?” Zayn cuts in, giving Louis a look over his coffee. “You‟re not going to let a bunch of fifteen-year-olds butcher the poor bard, are you?”

“Believe it or not, Zayn, I know a thing or two about Shakespeare,” Louis says. “Just because I don‟t spend my life analyzing sonnets doesn‟t mean I‟m an idiot.”  
Zayn laughs and elbows him. “You might be an idiot.”

“What‟s on the reading list this year, Zayn?” Louis says. “Fahrenheit 451? „It was a pleasure to burn...‟”

“Ha ha,” Zayn deadpans while Niall snorts into his lunch. “Fireman jokes. You‟re hilarious.”

The rest of the first week rolls by smoothly, and Louis starts to settle back into his work routine. It‟s nice to feel like he has some kind of purpose again after months of treading water. For the most part, his students seem genuinely enthusiastic about the more hands-on parts of the class already, and they only groan a little when he assigns them reading over the weekend. All in all, it‟s a good start, and when Louis settles down on Friday evening with Duchess and a takeaway, he‟s not unhappy with himself.

It‟s his life, and it‟s mostly quiet nights alone and the places where bitterness made him harder years ago, but it‟s all right, and he does his best to ignore the stagnant feeling in his stomach.

.....

Louis isn‟t sure why, in a world that contains iPhones, basic sound equipment still requires enough cords to strangle an average-size ox. Surely this should have been sorted out by now. Surely there are scientists who could be using their science to fix this. Surely that is what science is for.

Niall brought the speakers by, wheeling them in on the AV cart, and then returned with a giant cardboard box. “Anything you need should be in there somewhere,” he said, probably perfectly aware of the hell he was casting Louis into. The bastard.

Fifteen minutes later, Louis is still digging through the box, looking for the cord to connect his laptop to the speakers. He‟d planned to play some songs from La Boheme and Rent so his students could compare the two interpretations, and he would be damned if they were going to listen to opera through his shitty laptop speakers. Some things are sacred.  
Some sacred lesson plans are going to have to be scrapped, though, if he can‟t find the goddamned cord he needs. The box is half as tall as Louis himself, and he‟s bent nearly double, hunting through the dozens of seemingly-identical black wires that remain.

After an eternity, he spots what he thinks is the right cable, all the way at the bottom. Thank the sweet USB-compatible baby Jesus. Holding his glasses on with one hand, he reaches, reaches, brushes it with his fingertips, and……loses his balance, his torso falling into the box, his legs flailing above him before tipping over and carrying him through what is almost certainly the least graceful somersault of all time. He lies there for a moment, sprawled on his back, his upper body and head still inside the box and covered with speaker cables. The cord he needs is draped over his face. Mocking him.

“Um, you all right in there?” says a voice, obviously holding back laughter.

There is a person in his classroom. A witness to his current state. Louis stares at the roof of his cardboard cube of shame and considers remaining in this box for the rest of his life.

No. This will not do. A Tomlinson never admits defeat.

“Yes, perfectly all right!” he says cheerfully. “That was entirely intentional.” He begins to shimmy out of the box with what he assumes can only be the utmost agility. “Gymnastics, you know. Working on my floor routine.”

Free of his recyclable prison, he looks up to see who has caught him in this predicament.

Oh. Oh.

Louis is struck with the sudden urge to light himself on fire. His would-be rescuer is a young man, which Louis had known from the voice, but he had not been prepared for this. Dark curly hair, green eyes, and a smile that Louis likes so much that he feels slightly violated. And no one should look that good in a plain white t-shirt and cargo shorts. He‟s leaning against the doorway to Louis‟ classroom, staring at him.

Louis blinks. He‟s still there. Self-immolation is looking more and more appealing. At least Zayn could flirt with that hot fireman he‟s obsessed with over Louis‟ smoldering remains. Some good could come of this yet.

Louis has never seen this person before in his life. He is sure of that. He would remember.

He pulls up his braces, which have fallen on one side, and fumbles for words that won‟t make him sound like a complete idiot. What comes out of his mouth is, “Who the fuck are you?”

Smooth, Tomlinson. Very nice.

The newly-discovered bane of his life just laughs—Jesus, he‟s got dimples—and pushes away from the doorframe. “I‟m Harry,” he says.

“Was passing by, heard a crash, figured you might need a hand,” he continues, holding out said hand to Louis. Louis grabs ahold, and Harry pulls him up.

Somewhere between the ground and standing upright, Louis realises that his legs are entirely entangled in cords, and he can do nothing but look on in horror as his momentum carries him directly into Harry‟s chest. It‟s a very nice chest. Broad, solid, warm. Oh, God. He should have stayed in the box. He hadn‟t fully appreciated his time in the box. He had been so young, so foolish.

Harry just laughs again and holds Louis upright by his waist with one hand, and fuck, Louis hates him already.

“Hold still, we‟ll get you sorted,” he says. He drops to his knees and gets to work untangling the cables around Louis‟ legs. Louis stares stoically at the wall and refuses to contemplate the state of his life. There is an extremely attractive stranger kneeling at eye level with his crotch. No. Nope. Not going to process this information.

“There we go, almost free,” Harry says, rising to his feet with the end of a cord in one hand. “Give us a twirl, then,” he says, tugging slightly on the cable.

Louis complies, his ears burning, and pirouettes his way to freedom. If he‟s going to be made to look ridiculous, he‟s not going to do it halfway.  
Harry outright giggles. “You‟ve got the gold medal in the bag, I think.”

Louis gives an exaggerated bow. “You‟re clearly a man of taste.” He pauses a moment, shifting his weight. “Um, thanks for your help. Do you think you could be convinced to, er, never tell anyone about this? Ever.”

Harry just smiles his horrible smile. “Not a problem. I won‟t reveal your routine to the Russians. You need any help with the rest of this?” he asks, gesturing to the audio equipment. “I‟m handy with a speaker.”

The idea of spending another full minute in his presence makes Louis want to rip off his own skin. “Oh, no, I think I‟m all right, thanks,” he says hurriedly. “It was nice to meet you, Harry.”

“Nice to meet you too, Mr…” Harry trails off.

Louis briefly considers giving a fake name before remembering it‟s still written across the damn board from the first day of school. “Tomlinson. Louis,” he adds, holding out his hand.

Harry‟s grin widens. “Louis,” he says, grasping his hand. “I‟ll see you around.” And then he‟s gone.

Louis lets out the breath he‟s apparently been holding the entire time, and turns toward the box to find—or re-find, he supposes—the cord he needs. This is all Niall‟s fault.  
He nearly trips over himself again when a thought strikes. He asked for my last name, not my first. Oh God. Oh no.

At lunch, Zayn shrugs off his concerns and continues shoveling chips into his mouth. “He doesn‟t have to be a student. And anyway, the way you described him? Sounds way too hot to be a teenager.”

Louis keeps his head buried in his hands. “Maybe he‟s just freakishly developed.” He peers out between his fingers. “Who knows what the hormones in our food are doing to the youth, Zayn.” He had been ogling a student. A child. He had been contemplating the pectoral firmness of a child.

Zayn reaches out and snatches a piece of grilled chicken from Louis‟ salad. Louis makes an outraged noise and bats at his hand, but to no avail. “Hey, I‟m just protecting you from the hormones, man,” Zayn says smugly, before popping the chicken into his mouth. “But back to how you‟re probably going to prison.”

Louis groans and drops face-first into his salad.

He doesn‟t see the possibly hormonally-overdosed teen for two days, and is beginning to think that he must have imagined the whole thing in a concussed haze. Head injuries could cause hallucinations, right? Of course they could. And you probably can‟t go to prison over hallucinations.

He should have known his luck would run out eventually. He‟s walking to his car Friday afternoon, contemplating whether it‟s going to be a red or white wine kind of night, when a football comes careening into his field of vision and hits his car squarely on the back bumper.

Normally he‟d be angry, but as it is he just slumps slightly in defeat. He‟d probably be able to summon up more outrage if his car weren‟t such a piece of shit. Or if he weren‟t so exhausted.

“Sorry! Sorry,” a voice says behind him. He does his best to put some energy into a withering glare as he turns around, but his face drops into something closer to “cornered animal” when he sees who‟s approaching.

“Hey, Louis!” Harry says, all smiles and sweat. “I‟m really sorry about that, the lads don‟t know what they‟re doing quite yet.” The lads. Louis takes him in. Trainers. Football shorts. Another thrice-damned white t-shirt. Christ in heaven, he‟s on the football team.

He starts composing headlines in his head. JOCK SHOCK! Local teacher huge pervert, shunned forever.

“It‟s… it‟s fine,” he chokes out.

“Not really, since it‟s my job to make sure they don‟t embarrass themselves,” Harry says, picking up the football. It‟s only then that Louis sees the silver whistle hanging from a cord around his neck, bouncing against his chest when he stands back up.

“You‟re,” Louis swallows, “you‟re a new P.E. teacher, then?”

“Sort of,” Harry says. “Technical title is „assistant instructor.‟ Mostly my job is showing up in the afternoons to help with the footy. But yeah, I‟m supposed to keep that lot from kicking balls into the carpark, so feel free to yell at me.”

Fireworks are going off in Louis‟ head. “Ah, it‟s not a big deal.” Marching bands in his brain. “My car‟s majority dents at this point anyway, one more won‟t hurt.” Harry laughs. Louis isn‟t going to prison.

“I didn‟t ask earlier, what do you teach?” Harry says, tossing the football in the air and catching it.

“Drama,” Louis says, tracking the ball‟s movements with his eyes. “The, um, incident you witnessed earlier was part of an attempt to interest my students in opera. Didn‟t quite work out.”

“So are you in charge of putting on plays and all that?” Harry asks, still tossing the football.

“Yeah, that‟s me. Some of the other teachers help out though, with the set and all that. Niall Horan usually ends up being our sound guy for the musical.”

Harry‟s face lights up. “Niall the orchestra director? Niall‟s brilliant! I‟m actually going to be helping him out with some AV stuff this term on the side.” He finally catches the football and puts it under one arm. “To be honest, I don‟t have much on my plate during the afternoons, so I‟m pleased to have something to do.”

Louis smiles as if his to-do list for the entire year hasn‟t just been rearranged around his afternoons. “Well I‟m hopeless with electronics, so I‟m glad to have someone besides Niall to harass for help.”

Harry looks like he‟s about to say something, but a voice comes from the football pitch. “Styles! Did that football roll to Siberia? Hurry up!”

He turns toward the pitch and shouts back “Coming!” He looks back at Louis, walking backwards. “Well, feel free to harass me anytime, Louis Tomlinson,” he says with a cheeky grin before turning around and jogging back to the pitch.

Louis holds off a minor panic attack long enough to admire the view.

It‟s not until he gets home that he thinks to text Zayn.

he‟s not a student. u r officially still crazier than me.

.........

It seems like there‟s some kind of cosmic force at work here, because Louis keeps running into Harry over the next few days. When he stops by the front office to pick up some forms, Harry‟s there, posting a schedule of football matches on the bulletin board by the desk. When he drops in on Niall after school to ask about some sheet music, Harry‟s just hanging out in the percussion storage closet, fucking around on some tenor drums.

They make friendly conversation every time, never much awkwardness between them. Louis would chalk it up to the fact that saving someone from being strangled to death by a box full of wires goes a long way in breaking the ice, but it feels like more than that. There‟s a natural kind of ease there. Louis hasn‟t really clicked with a person right away in  
years, but every time he runs into Harry, he can feel pieces falling into place.

Louis is just on his way to buy a drink from his favorite vending machine, the one on the third floor, when it happens again. He‟s minding his own business, really. All he wanted was a nice refreshing beverage, not to be blindsided with the sight of Harry in a v-neck with the sleeves rolled up, one arm braced against the vending machine.

Harry is attractive. Harry is very, very attractive. This is not news. When is he going to stop feeling like he‟s been concussed every time he sees him? Is this some kind of psychophysical conditioning from the first time they met? Does he have brain damage?

Harry is so attractive he makes Louis feel like he‟s got brain damage. This is not a good situation.

Louis has half a mind to turn around and flee back down the stairs to the safety of his starfishy home, but he finds himself powerless to do so, propelled mindlessly forward by some force he doesn‟t understand. Brain damage. Definitely brain damage.

“Hello again,” Louis says as he draws up within earshot, tone deceptively casual. Harry looks up at the sound of his voice and grins.

“I‟m starting to think you‟re stalking me,” Harry says, mischief in his eyes.

Louis laughs. “You‟ve caught me. I like to attach myself to people who remind me of a time when I humiliated myself over AV equipment. It‟s a hobby of mine.”

“I see,” Harry says, still grinning. “Out of curiosity, would another hobby of yours happen to be getting crisps unstuck from machines? Because I‟m sort of out of money and that was supposed to be my lunch.”

Louis manages to pull his eyes away from Harry‟s face to assess the scene and, yes, there‟s a packet of crisps lodged up high in the machine.

“Ah, yes,” Louis says. “This one is a bit dodgy. Best food selection of the lot around here, but very moody as well. You‟ve got to have some finesse with it.”

“Okay,” Harry says. “Show me.”

Louis has done this exact routine dozens of times on his own, but it has never really occurred to him how ridiculous it actually looks until Harry‟s standing there, watching him expectantly. Luckily, Louis has a great deal of experience taking shelter behind ridiculousness. He grabs the machine with both hands, gives it a few hard shakes, kicks the bottom left corner, and then slams his hip into the right side.

The packet of crisps falls down with a sound of quiet defeat.

“You‟re amazing,” Harry says gratefully, and Louis can do nothing but smile dumbly and step aside to let Harry retrieve his food.

“Is that really all you‟re having for lunch?” Louis asks him.

Harry shrugs. “I‟ve got to go to a coach‟s meeting in an hour. Didn‟t really feel like going all the way back to my flat just to turn around and leave again. Figured I‟d just go eat in my car or something.”

“That‟s rubbish,” Louis says, speaking before he even realises he‟s come to a decision. “You‟re one of us now. Come sit with me.”

Harry‟s face lights up before Louis has a chance to consider backpedaling. “Yeah, all right. Have you got a lounge? I‟ve never actually been in one of those.”

“Oh, Harry,” Louis says. “We‟ve much to teach you about the ways of the world.”

.........

-Z-

“I swear to God, if you come out here in anything leather, I am locking you in a supply closet,” Louis is shouting.

Zayn pulls a face at the door, knowing Louis is sitting on the other side with his salad, taking up as much space as possible at the lounge‟s only table with Niall and that fit footy coach he‟s made friends with. With whom he‟s made friends. God, the thought of this afternoon has already got him so flustered he‟s dangling his prepositions.

He meets his own eyes in the mirror of the tiny bathroom and shrugs his leather jacket on over his undershirt, smoothing out the collar. He‟s finally got his hair just right, artfully disheveled quiff like it happened by accident, and he knows how good his arse looks in these trousers. Right. Okay, boots on, stuff the cardigan in the bag, and then a final once-over before he‟s ready.

“Should I wear the glasses?” he yells back through the door, frowning at his reflection. “I want to look, like, smart and adult, but I don‟t know. Are they too hipster-y?”

“Zayn, darling, that man is so oblivious you could sashay up to him wearing gold lamé shorts and he‟d just thank you for coming to the assembly,” Louis tells him. “Now come out before you sprain something. I know you‟re in there pouting at yourself in the mirror.”

Zayn sighs. Louis isn‟t wrong on either count. In the end, he decides to leave the glasses on. They sort of balance out the whole rocker look, like, yes, I am edgy and mysterious, but I also read Byron and enjoy expensive cheeses.

He scoops up his duffle bag and opens the door, and Louis immediately throws down his fork.

“Christ,” Louis moans. Next to him, Niall lets out a wolf whistle.

“Don‟t start,” Zayn says. “Either of you.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Louis says, kneading his temples with his fingers. “I‟m just having war flashbacks to the last time I had to spend my afternoon trying to contain a teenage sex riot because of this shit. Are you trying to get arrested?”

“It‟s not that bad,” Zayn mumbles, sinking into his chair.

Louis scoffs. “You look like you fell out of a music video.”

“You know what day it is,” Zayn says.

“That‟s no excuse!”

“What day is it?” the football coach—Harry, Zayn thinks—says, squinting between Louis and Zayn over his bag of crisps.

“Fire Safety Awareness Day,” he, Louis, and Niall say in unison, Louis with an air of dread and Niall through a mouthful of chips. Harry just stares at them.

“You see, dear Harry,” Louis says, “when a man loves another man very, very much—”

“Shut up!” Zayn says. He can feel his ears going hot.

“I was just going to tell the story!” Louis says.

“Don‟t,” Zayn says. “You tell it wrong"

“I do not!” Louis says, doing his best to look deeply affronted. He throws a wink toward Harry, who bites back a grin. He doesn‟t seem to react otherwise, though, and Zayn is briefly thankful that, even if Louis is a trivialising arsehole, he doesn‟t make friends with homophobic dicks. “I tell it with the drama and theatricality it so richly deserves, as is my gift as a purveyor of the arts.”

“Who's the one with the book deal, here, you or me? Anyway, you make it sound stupid!” Zayn says. He looks down, fingering the handle of his mug. He spent too long in the bathroom. His coffee‟s gone cold. “It‟s not stupid.”

“All right then,” Louis says. “You tell it.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. He drops his elbows on the table and props his chin up on his hands, crisps completely forgotten, blinking at Zayn expectantly.

Zayn takes care to heave his best long-suffering sigh, lest anyone catch on to the fact that he basically spends most of his life waiting for someone to bring up the subject. It‟s his favorite story to tell, and he knows Louis is going to call him out on it if he doesn‟t start now.

“Well,” Zayn begins, “it started about a year ago. It was—”

“The end of September!” Louis interrupts. “The first crisp chill in the air seemed to speak of new—”

“I‟m telling the story!”

“Right, sorry,” Louis says, grinning across the table at him, “carry on.”

“Anyway,” Zayn continues. “It was about a year ago. I had borrowed this ancient Yeats book from the library—you know, the poet? So I returned it, and a week later I realised I‟d left this photo of my mum stuck in it, so I went to the library to try to get it back out, only the book was gone.

They‟d started running out of shelf space, so they‟d sold a bunch of books to make room for new ones, yeah? And somebody‟d bought the book, and they‟d paid in cash so I couldn‟t even find their name to try to get it back.

“A couple of months later, I was just sitting around my apartment watching telly when somebody knocked on the door. I almost didn‟t open it because I wasn‟t expecting anyone. I don‟t know why I answered the door, but in the end I did. And there was just this... man.”

Zayn can feel himself starting to smile now, not at any of them but at a fixed point high on the wall opposite him and the memory of a warm hand and a crinkled up smile. He knows himself, knows his brain and knows that he could wax poetic about Liam for hours if anyone would let him. He once got drunk and spent the entire night hunched over Louis‟ coffee table rhapsodising, half sloppy poetry quotes and half long-winded descriptions of the shape of Liam‟s lips. Louis has never fully recovered from what he claims was a “traumatic life event” and still flinches any time anyone says the word supple. Zayn‟s learned to try to keep most of it reined in, even if it is his own personal ongoing literary masterpiece.

He pulls the memory of that night up again for the millionth time. By now it almost feels frayed at the edges, worn in and comfortable, himself barefoot in bleach stained track bottoms and Liam in the dim light of the hallway, collar of his t-shirt pulled too far over on one side.

“He was gorgeous,” Zayn tells them. “These big brown eyes that were just like, you could tell he was the nicest person on the planet just from looking at them. Just standing on my doorstep in jeans and a t-shirt, smiling at me like we‟d known each other forever, and he hands me the picture of my mum. Says he bought the book a few months ago but didn‟t find the picture until last week, and he thought I might like it back, so he went to the library and got my name and address from their records. And I just sort of... gaped at him until he shoved the picture into my hand and managed to get my head sorted enough to thank him before he left, and then he was gone, and I didn‟t realise until ten minutes later that I hadn‟t asked his name. Literally the perfect man showed up on my doorstep—gorgeous, nice, reads fucking Yeats—and I just let him walk away like an idiot.

“And then, right before Christmas hols, a transformer blew right in front of the school and the fire department came. They sent one of the blokes in to check to make sure no students were hurt, and it was him. In full fireman gear. And he remembered me. Stopped what he was doing and went out of his way to come talk to me, shook my hand, apologized for not introducing himself before, told me his name was Liam Payne.”

“And then,” Louis puts in, “you decided that the best way to his heart is to spend the rest of your life creating small emergencies so you have to call the fire department, instead of asking him to dinner like a sane person.”

“It sounds worse than it is when you put it like that!” Zayn says, dropping his eyes to glare at Louis. “I don‟t even know if he likes men yet! This, this is destiny. This is my Pride and Prejudice, all right, and I only get one shot at it, and I‟m not about to fuck it up by going for it too early. I‟m just, you know, nudging destiny along a bit.”

“You could also fuck it up by giving him the impression that you‟re an arsonist. Generally a turn-off for a person who saves people from fires for a living,” Louis says. “Jane Austen never tried to cause a chemical explosion in the science lab.”

“You can‟t prove that was me,” Zayn says. “Look, I‟m just saying, there‟s no way this was all a coincidence. One day everything is going to fall into place, and it‟ll just happen perfectly, and okay, maybe I have to have a cig under a smoke detector or two for that to happen. I‟m only a man, Louis. Who am I to argue with destiny?”

“Holy shit,” Harry speaks up finally. And then he leans forward in his seat and says, “How can I help?”

“Oh God,” Louis groans, rubbing his eyes under his glasses. “Don‟t encourage him!”

“But this is brilliant, though!” Harry says. “Besides, didn‟t you hear? I‟m not encouraging him, I‟m encouraging destiny, you scrooge.”

“I‟m not a scrooge,” Louis huffs, “I‟m a realist.”

“You are, though! You‟re Ebenezer Tomlinson,” Zayn agrees with laugh, and Harry laughs too. Louis is looking at Zayn like he‟d like to strangle him with his scarf, which just makes Zayn laugh harder.

“The scroogiest,” Harry adds.

“I like this one,” Zayn says, extending a fist to Harry, and Harry doesn‟t miss a beat before bumping his own knuckles against it. “I think we‟ll get on just fine.”

“Great, now I‟ve got two daft romantics getting feelings all over the place,” Louis sighs. “This won‟t do at all. Niall, tell me you still don‟t give a fuck about anything but where your next meal's coming from.”

“I think you‟re all mad,” Niall says with a shrug. “You too, Louis. You‟re mad for caring so much.”

“Shove off, Horan.”

Niall just shrugs again and goes back to his chips.

“Anyway, as I was saying before I was ruthlessly betrayed by everyone in this room,” Louis says, adjusting his glasses with what he must think is utmost dignity and switching his attention back to Harry, “the point of all this is that once a term there‟s Fire Safety Awareness Day, and they send a couple of firemen to come talk to the school about not setting your mum‟s drapes on fire or whatever—don‟t get any ideas, Zayn—ow!”

Zayn just grins as Louis makes a production of rubbing his shin where Zayn kicked it under the table. Justice served.

“They always send Liam because he‟s so good with the students,” Zayn tells Harry. “He‟s charming.”

“He‟s hot,” Louis says. “They‟re almost as bad over him as they are over you.”

“Can‟t blame them really,” Zayn says.

“I don‟t know if that was a reference to your fireman or your own vanity,” Louis says, “but either way, ugh.”

“You‟re just as vain as I am and you know it,” Zayn says. “Don‟t make me dig your Bebo back up, because I will.”

“I don‟t know what you‟re on about,” Louis says, kicking him back. He glances at his phone, checking the time. “Well, if we don‟t leave soon, you‟re going to miss your chance to talk to your man before the assembly, and as much I loathe assemblies, I do so love watching you melt into a warm, stuttering puddle of pomade.”

“Shut up,” Zayn says, but as he‟s getting out of his chair he feels his heart already starting to kick up into his throat a little. It‟s kind of ridiculous, really, because he‟s spoken to Liam dozens of times before. The time with the flooded basement, both times Louis‟ cat got stuck up a tree. They had a really nice conversation about ceiling tiles that one time someone—Zayn‟s not saying who—called in an anonymous report that the sprinklers in his hallway weren‟t up to code. They‟re friendly acquaintances by now. Zayn has plenty of friendly acquaintances. He‟s a grown man and he‟s pretty damn far from a blushing virgin by now in any regard.

So it‟s ridiculous that by the time they reach the theatre and Zayn‟s eyes hone in on Liam in a t-shirt and the bottom half of his fireman suit, his entire brain has gone fuzzy.  
“Go on,” Louis says, pushing Zayn in Liam‟s direction. “Go say hello.”

“Right,” Zayn says. He sets his shoulders. He can do this. He is sex on legs. Lesser beings fall in his path.

He makes his way down the aisle while the other three slide into a row of seats near the front. Liam is in the middle of a conversation with one of the other firefighters, looking as always like the world‟s most attractive boy-next-door. But in a fireman suit. Zayn wonders what he ever did to deserve this.

He‟s been rehearsing for days exactly what he would say. He‟s recited it in front of the mirror a thousand times, practiced exactly what the look on his face should be when he says it. It‟s the perfect opening line, smart and casual and just funny enough to be intriguing.

As he‟s on the last few steps, Liam turns and sees him and breaks into a grin, and Zayn cannot for the life of him remember what the hell he was going to say.

“Hello,” he says lamely. He can‟t feel his face.

“Hi, Zayn!” Liam says, reaching out to shake Zayn‟s hand. “How are you?”

He doesn‟t know. Zayn does not know how he is.

“All right,” he manages.

“Glad to hear it,” Liam says, and he actually sounds like it. “Ready for the assembly?”

“Same every term, isn‟t it?” Zayn hears himself say and immediately wishes he could take it back because why the fuck did he say that? Now just he sounds like a fucking dick.  
Liam just laughs, though, unfazed. “Spot on. I love talking to kids, but between you and me, I‟m getting a bit sick of reading these cards.”

“Cool,” Zayn says. “I have to go now.”

Liam looks a bit disappointed, but Zayn‟s tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth and he‟s already slowly backing away. “Oh, okay!” Liam says. “Good to see you!”

Zayn turns and flees back up the aisle, already thinking about the bottle of vodka in his freezer at home. That was it. The thing he‟s been working toward all week, and he fucking blew it, again, because he always blows it, because he can get anyone in the world to fuck him except for the one person in the world who actually matters. He should be studied by scientists, honestly. Something is wrong with him.

“How‟d it go?” Louis says as soon as Zayn sits down between him and Niall. Harry‟s leaning forward in his seat on the other side of Louis.

“Leave me alone,” Zayn says, trying not to sound as miserable as he feels.

“Did you tell him you‟d like to slide down his pole?” Louis says.

“Shut up,” Zayn says.

“Did he ask to climb your ladder?” Louis asks, poking Zayn in the side.

“You‟re not funny,” Zayn says.

“You should ask to see his hose,” Harry chips in, and Louis looks like he‟s just won the fucking lottery.

“I hope you all die of dysentery,” Zayn tells them.

At least, Zayn thinks, he may not be floating alone in this particular sea of despair for much longer. He can see the way Louis looks at Harry, the way his elbow is hanging over Harry‟s side of the shared armrest, the way he laughs when Harry leans in and says something in his ear in the middle of the assembly. It‟s too early to tell, really, but he makes a mental note, sets the date of Louis‟ downfall some day in the near future.


	2. Two

Classes have really started to pick up momentum now that everyone‟s had a couple of weeks to adjust to new people and new schedules. He can hear Niall putting the brass section through their paces when he passes the orchestra room, already preparing for their autumn concert, and Zayn won‟t shut up about the unit he‟s doing on Wordsworth, which is almost worse than when he won‟t shut up about Liam. Even Harry is starting to get serious about putting the lads through drills, although he still takes the time to eat lunch with them every day.

  
For his part, Louis has chosen Much Ado About Nothing as his Shakespeare, reasoning that it‟d probably be better to break the students in on a comedy than one of the heavier plays. He‟s posted flyers already, and he‟s holding auditions next month. Until then, though, he‟s got classes to focus on as well. His strategy with teaching is to start the year off with movement, the fun parts that loosen everybody up and make the kids actually want to show up for class, and then gradually segue into scripts and writing assignments. He made the mistake of trying to open with fundamentals of theater theory in his first year as a teacher, and he thought he was going to off himself by the time they were trudging through Othello. Let no man say Louis Tomlinson does not learn from his mistakes.

  
Today, he‟s sitting on his desk again, supervising one of his classes as they try to make it through a group improv exercise. It‟s actually hilarious, really. The kids are still learning, and there are a lot of awkward pauses and panicked expressions, but they really are trying.

Up now is Stuart Standhill, imitating a drunk wildebeest to the best of his ability. He turns out to be brilliant at this game, which Louis was expecting. He‟s worked with Stuart in his plays before. The boy has a natural gift for drama and excellent comedic timing. That‟s not really what Louis is watching, though.

  
Louis watches him bound across the floor, hands above his head, stretching himself up to the laughter of his classmates like a plant in the sun. He smiles a little to himself, but it‟s almost painful to watch, because he knows. He knows, and it feels like being an immobile spectator in his own memories.

  
He remembers two years ago, when Zayn rang him after school sounding absolutely wrung out and told him about how he had to break up a fight in the boys‟ room on the second floor, how poor Stuart Standhill had had the shit beaten out of him by two of the boys in his year. He remembers how Zayn told him the kid had begged him not to report it, and Louis understands that so well. He remembers what it‟s like to just want so badly to be normal, and he‟d believed too at that age that turning in the people who hurt you just let everyone else know that you deserved to be hurt.

  
He‟s seen Stuart in the halls and on his stage plenty since then, seen the way he is around his friends and the way he is in his classes. He was quieter when he was younger, but in recent years he‟s become a new person, all jokes and funny faces and high energy all the time. Louis knows that particular song and dance all too intimately, spent most of his teen years hiding behind that line of defense. He remembers that constant restless energy, trying so hard to be the loud one or the funny one so that nobody would notice the other way he was different. You only get one identity at that age, and you can‟t be “the gay one” if you‟re already “the class clown.”

  
Stuart‟s doing his best, really making a go of it. He has a girlfriend every once in a while, a close friend that he‟ll suddenly be holding hands with in the halls and kissing by her locker. For the most part, though, Louis can tell that everyone sort of knows. The girls treat him like just another one of their friends, the one who knows six ways to make the uniform jumpers look less tragic and touches up their hair for the spring musical before he reports for mic check. The boys seem torn, half-fascinated by the brilliance of his personality and half-wary of something they‟d never say out loud, or at least not in front of him. Louis knows Stuart must just pretend not to think about it and pretend not to know it himself, keeps hoping that one day he‟ll try hard enough and it‟ll work and everything will be fine.

  
Sometimes Louis wonders how long the similarities will last, wonders if Stuart‟s life is going to end up exactly like his own. He wonders if Stuart will finally stop lying to himself when he‟s eighteen, if he‟ll cry into his mum‟s jumper when he tells her and if there‟s anybody at home who‟ll take care of him. He wonders if he‟s already had that first awful crush on a straight friend who loves him in every way but the right one. Louis almost hopes he has, hopes he‟s gotten that rib-cracking frustration out of the way early enough that it won‟t follow him out of his teens. He wonders if, when the time comes, the relief of finally being out will make Stuart a little reckless for the first few years too, if he‟ll end up with his heart broken enough times that he starts holding people at a safer distance. If he does, he‟ll be well prepared, ready to fall back into those old habits of keeping his guard up all the time. He wonders if Stuart will be just like him by the time he‟s twenty-five, a jaded cat owner whose last five shags were meaningless one-night stands that he only halfway enjoyed.

  
And the thing is, he wants to help him so badly. He wants to sit the lad down behind closed doors and tell him that this won‟t make him happy, that the parts of him that are bright and safe aren‟t the only parts of him worth showing people. But he knows that if somebody had done that to him at that age—if somebody had reached in and shattered the illusion that he was fooling anybody—it probably would have destroyed whatever small sense of security he‟d had. It would have sent him retreating back into himself or lashing out, horrified that somebody had seen right through him.

  
Plus, if he‟s honest, he doesn‟t know how to convince someone of something that he‟s not quite sure of himself.

  
So he watches, and he does what he can. His class and his productions are safe spaces for everyone, Stuart included and especially. Or at least, they‟re as safe as Louis knows how to make them. He hears a couple of lads in the back of the class talking about Stuart once and tells them they can each do an extra hundred pages of reading for the next day, since they seem to have so much free time on their hands. He knows that they‟ll just keep talking outside of his classroom, but he‟ll be damned if it happens within those walls. He doesn‟t have any delusions of being able to fix anybody‟s life, but he won‟t let it get worse right in front of him.

  
And he waits for Stuart to maybe, one day, come to him. He‟s one of the youngest teachers at the school, and he‟s got a reputation as being one of the more open-minded ones. Even if Zayn claims that directing sometimes turns him into “a prick of volcanic proportions,” he‟s fairly well-liked, at least by the Island of Misfit Toys that constitute his drama students. He tries his best to make it clear that he‟s a person his kids can talk to, and he hopes that‟s enough.

  
“And, scene!” Louis shouts, hopping down from his desk. Stuart freezes in the middle of an elaborate drunk wildebeest mating dance. Louis kind of just wants to pat him on the head. “Good work today, all of you. Not afraid to push boundaries. I like that. Maybe no more jokes about the headmaster‟s Y-fronts though, Miss Harrison.” He points to a freckly girl near the front, who just shrugs in response, and Louis suppresses a grin. His kind of girl. “That‟s all the time we‟ve got for today. Give yourselves a hand.”

  
The class applauds and starts gathering up their things and filing out, still laughing about the best bits of the game amongst themselves. Stuart‟s one of the last ones out, arm around Shelley Harrison, and Louis gives him a small nod as he passes. Stuart blinks at him, unsure of how to respond, and then he‟s off down the hall and Louis is left standing in the doorway watching himself from nine years ago head off to lunch.

It took Harry about a day to figure out that Louis has a free period after lunch, and he‟s been coming around every day ever since. Sometimes he just sits quietly while Louis grades papers or works on lesson plans, but most of the time they‟re talking, constantly talking, curled up to this new warmth of each other‟s company.

  
Louis learns that Harry is originally from Holmes Chapel, but he ended up alone in Manchester when one of his friends promised to let him move in but then got a work transfer at the last minute. He dropped out of uni when he was nineteen and tried his hand at a couple of different things—baking, law classes, singing in a band—but none of them ever quite worked out for him. In the end he kept coming back to photography, so he decided to make a go of it for real. He‟s in his last year of school now, taking photography classes at a university nearby in the mornings. He‟s got his eye on a couple of internships, one in London that he seems particularly interested in, but he talks about it like he doesn‟t think he really has a chance at it. The friend he was supposed to move in with in Manchester is friends with the head P.E. instructor, and he‟d felt so bad about leaving Harry without a place to stay that he‟d set him up with the coaching job to help him pay the rent.

  
It's easy to tell that Harry loves photography; he's constantly snapping pictures of things, either with his phone or on the massive camera he carries around sometimes. Louis learns quickly to dodge out of the way, ducking out of frame when Harry lifts his camera to take a picture of him for no apparent reason. When Harry asks him why he just shrugs. "Doing you a favor, Harry. I'm so beautiful I'd shatter the lens. Should be thanking me," he says with a wink, and Harry leaves it at that, for the most part. Still, Louis stays vigilant, even as he starts collecting facts about Harry.

  
He learns that Harry loves mushrooms but hates them on pizza, that he‟s completely serious about Love Actually being his favorite movie, that he‟s twenty-three years old and has somehow managed to make it this far in life without developing a casual distaste for everything and everyone around him like Louis has. He still likes to bake things when he‟s happy. He has a sister he loves and a mum he phones every day, and Louis is the first friend he‟s made since he moved to Manchester.  
  
He has more than 20,000 songs in his iTunes, half of which are by bands Louis has never heard of. One afternoon, after Harry plays Louis five songs in a row that he claims are his “favorites” and Louis doesn‟t know a single one, he seems to reach the end of his rope.

  
“That‟s it,” he says, slamming his iPod down with a forcefulness that has Louis concerned for its well-being. “When the festivals come around this year, we are going, and you are going to be educated whether you like it or not.”

  
“I‟m really not sure that‟s necessary—” Louis starts, but Harry cuts him off.

  
“Trust me. It‟s necessary. We are going to Leeds Fest, I am choosing what acts we watch, and you are going to listen to songs that don‟t have dubstep remixes or verses from Pitbull in them.”

  
Louis chews on his pen. “I‟m pretty sure if you look hard enough on YouTube you can find dubstep remixes for pretty much anything.”

  
“You know what I mean,” Harry says, laughing. “Don‟t try to get out of this on a technicality.”

  
“I just don‟t see anything wrong with a bit of pop, sue me,” Louis says. He also doesn‟t get the appeal of listening to what sounds like several men and possibly a goat weeping into their beards, accompanied by ukelele.

  
“Me neither!” Harry protests. “It‟s just that your opinions on pop are also terrible. Katy Perry over Beyonce, Lou? Really? Are you even human?”

  
That starts an argument that lasts the rest of Louis‟ free period and continues for days. Louis eventually admits defeat, but that only makes Harry more eager to “educate” him. After that, Harry starts bringing in a flash drive full of new music for Louis almost every day. Louis just thanks him and tries not to think about what Harry could have intended when he said they would go to festivals together. That‟s a thing friends do, right? And they‟re friends now. So if Louis falls asleep listening to the music Harry‟s given him, he‟s just being a good friend. Doing his research.

  
If he‟s honest, he also finds that some of it is so boring that it provides a welcome cure for his occasional insomnia, but he‟s not going to tell Harry that.

  
There‟s one thing he doesn‟t learn about Harry, though, and it‟s starting to drive him slightly mad. It‟s not like it really matters. It shouldn‟t matter. But Louis‟ curiosity is killing him. He tries as hard as he can to figure it out without outright asking, dropping hints and chances for Harry to comment on things, but it never works. The fact remains: Harry Styles‟ sexuality is a fucking mystery.

  
One afternoon over lunch he manages to manipulate the conversation toward their respective sexual histories, angling it like he‟s joking around. Zayn is utterly predictable, describing an equal number of men and women while looking extremely pleased with his own ability to pull, then adding dramatically that nobody has seemed to measure up ever since he met Liam. Niall throws a napkin at his face and mentions his own knack for picking up American girls at pubs, which they all already knew about, and then Harry starts speaking.

  
“I dunno,” Harry says, shrugging as he swallows a bite of his sandwich. Louis tries very, very hard not to appear to be hanging on every word. “I haven‟t really dated anybody since I turned twenty.”

  
“But you‟ve slept with people,” Zayn prompts with studied nonchalance, and Louis can tell by the way he‟s carefully avoiding his eye that Zayn knows exactly what the point of this conversation is. Louis honestly forgets sometimes what a good friend Zayn is. He should buy him a fruit basket one of these days.

  
Harry laughs a little. “Yeah, a few people. You know. Casual stuff. None of them were, like, my soulmate, you know? I mean, I liked them all, but nothing serious.”

  
People. Them. God damn Harry and his fucking aversion to gendered words. Louis is going to shove him into a pit of bears.

  
He needs to change his approach. If he wants information out of Harry, maybe he has to give up some of his own. All right. He keeps his eyes closely trained on Harry‟s face, planning to memorize and analyze any change in his expression.

  
“Soulmates don‟t exist, Harold, no matter how many times Zayn‟s wanked to Liam in the shower, so it‟s not surprising you haven‟t found yours.” He ignores Zayn‟s affronted shout and continues. “I, like you, have sought and found comfort in the realm of casual sex, and haven‟t found a single gentleman worth committing to in years.”

  
So there it is. Out there. His eyes didn‟t leave Harry‟s face the entire time he was speaking, and he observed, well, nothing. Not a damn thing. Not a flicker, not a blink, not a twitchy fucking eyebrow. Either Harry Styles has the poker face of a boulder or he really just does not give a shit about who other people fuck. Overall, one of Louis‟ least traumatic yet most aggravating coming-outs.

  
“That‟s because you‟re a cynical dick, though,” Niall says.

  
Louis finally shifts his attention away from Harry to bat his eyelashes at Niall. “Oh, sweetie, you do know how to make a girl feel special.”

  
“How are you supposed to know if you like them or not if you don‟t actually, you know, speak to them? Or know their names?” Zayn says. “Actually, that would be an improvement at this point, when was the last time you even got laid?”

“Ooh, that reminds me, Zayn, how is your father doing?” Louis simpers, dodging the fork Zayn pegs at him.

  
All four of them laugh, and conversation meanders away to topics that, if anyone asks Louis, are far less interesting than figuring out where Harry puts his dick.

  
Normally, if a guy were as on board the Zayn and Liam‟s Epic Destiny train as Harry is, Louis would assume he was at least a little bit gay. Then again, Harry is a university student—an art student, even, if photography counts—and who even knows what counts as normal straight-guy behavior for them? Plus, if he weren‟t straight, why wouldn‟t he have said something about it when Zayn and Louis did?

  
Louis resigns himself to ignorance, but that doesn‟t stop him from keeping a close eye on Harry over the next few days. If he had ten pence for every guy who‟d played it cool when he first came out only to avoid him like the plague later, he‟d have at least seventy pence, which can‟t really buy much but still seems like a lot in context. Three more and he can buy a soda from the third floor vending machine. Metaphorically.

  
But he‟ll be damned if he can spot a single difference in Harry‟s behavior. He keeps coming around all the time, keeps stealing food off his plate, keeps exhibiting zero sense of personal space. Louis has no idea what his angle is, but he‟s going to figure it out eventually. He‟s dealt with his fair share of charming men in the past, and in his experience, there are no intentions pure enough that he hasn‟t been able to find the ulterior motives eventually.

  
Until then, he guesses he‟ll just enjoy Harry‟s company, biding his time until he can figure him out. After all, Harry laughs at Louis‟ jokes, which is more than enough to justify having him around. Plus, if Louis is being honest, he likes what Harry brings to the lunch group. It had started to devolve into Zayn and Louis bickering half-heartedly to pass the time while Niall looked on and contributed the occasional sarcastic remark, all of them knowing exactly how the other two would react to everything they did. He and Zayn are both troublemakers in their own right, and when they don‟t have something to poke at they turn to each other for entertainment, trading smart remarks for lack of anything better to do. Niall would be the target, but he cares so little about what they say that there‟s no fun in it. They work as a trio, Niall balancing out Zayn and Louis‟ mania, but it had been getting predictable, their banter sliding into routine.

  
Now there‟s a new variable, and Louis is finding he enjoys having Harry in the mix. He never knows who Harry will side with during his mock arguments with Zayn, or if he‟ll just play the two of them off each other for his own amusement, and having Harry around makes Niall more likely to speak up, too. Suddenly voices fly across the table in new patterns, laughter ringing with real surprise. Louis hadn‟t realised that the three of them had been having the same conversations over and over again until Harry changed the script.

  
Without even trying, Louis finds himself shifting into a new normal with Harry as an integral part, and he isn‟t even surprised when he sees that Harry has left his iPod in Louis‟ room as he packs up to leave on a Tuesday afternoon. Harry doesn‟t have a classroom of his own; where would he be leaving his stuff if not Louis‟ room?

  
He grabs it as he leaves, taking the long way out to the carpark so he can swing by the pitch and return it before heading home. He‟s silently pleased that this time, at least, he has a legitimate reason to stop and talk to Harry, instead of his feet just carrying him that way against his will. Until now, he‟s always just walked by, maybe giving Harry a brief wave if he sees him, but there‟s never been any justification to go over and say hi, and Louis has never really been one for idle small talk. Apparently he‟s become one for altering his daily routine for the sake of a wave, though, which doesn‟t really bear thinking about.

  
He makes his way over and approaches the fence. It‟s the closest he‟s actually come to the pitch while they‟re practicing, and he finds himself squinting at the players darting around the field, unsure of where to look to find Harry.

  
“Come on, Richards, I know you‟ve got more than that,” Louis hears over the noise of practice, and his eyes follow the sound until they land on Harry.

  
He‟s running drills. Not just supervising drills like Louis always assumes he does, but actually running them alongside the boys, shouting instructions and encouragement as he goes. Louis watches as he zig-zags in between the flags they‟ve set up, hair falling damp in his eyes, t-shirt soaked through with sweat. The sunlight is glistening on his arms.

Like, not Mills & Boon glistening. Dirty, rough-and-tumble sports glistening. Louis was not exactly prepared for this.

  
When Harry reaches the end of the flags, he looks up and spots Louis. “Run it again!” he says, and gives a blast on his whistle. The players take off, and Harry jogs across the pitch. He slows to a stop in front of the fence and twines his fingers through the chain links.

  
“What‟s up, Lou?” he says, breathing heavily but grinning through it. Louis is almost having trouble looking directly at him this close, all muscle and energy and control. Harry looks like what bodies were invented for.

  
It‟s fucking inconsiderate, is what it is.

  
“You left this in my room. Figured you‟d need it before tomorrow,” Louis says, slipping the iPod through a gap in the fence. Harry‟s face lights up when he sees it, and he grabs it happily.

  
“Oh thank God, thought I‟d lost it,” he says. “I was going to have to lead a two mile run with no music. I probably would have died, thank you so much.”

  
Louis swallows and smiles at Harry as if there is not currently a live-action film of Harry running in slow motion to the theme from Chariots of Fire playing in his head. Because that would be crazy.

  
“You look good,” he blurts out. “Er—the team, I mean. They seem... well-conditioned.”

  
Harry breaks out in a grin and, wow, Louis really needs to get out of there as quickly as possible. “Thanks! We‟ve been working really hard.”

  
“Right, hard. Very hard. Um. Er, well—” Louis starts, preparing to make an excuse to escape.

  
“You should come to the match at the end of the week,” Harry interrupts.

  
“Oh, uh, yeah, sure, sounds great!” Louis says, because it‟s his best strategy to get out of there as quickly as possible, and not at all because he has trouble saying no to dirty boys. Not that Harry is a dirty boy. Oh God. Abort. Abort. “Right. Anyway. See you tomorrow!” he says with a slightly manic wave, and then he turns tail and flees.

  
“See you!” he hears Harry call after him, and his blush doesn‟t fade until he‟s halfway home.

 

.......

 

-Z-

  
It‟s been a long day for Zayn already. He‟s an hour in and he hasn‟t even managed to get a full cup of coffee yet, the first one too weak and the second spilled all over the passenger seat of his car. He can‟t make a bunch of teenagers care about dark romanticism versus transcendentalism without some caffeine in his system. He just can‟t.

  
It doesn't help that his editor has been on his back all week about getting the next few chapters of his book fully drafted. He's thankful to have an editor at all, completely blown away that anyone looked at the few short stories he's had published and said we want you to write us a book, but it's still stressful to suddenly be writing on someone else's schedule. There's no way she's going to take it well when he tells her he's thinking about changing up part of his plot. His protagonist is a singer, but something about it isn't feeling right; there needs to be more people. Two singers? Can he make it about two singers? He definitely needs caffeine.

  
He‟s in the lounge on the second floor, the one with the really nice coffee maker, finally clutching a mug of strong coffee in his hands with nobody to ruin it, when Louis comes in and sidles up next to him. He looks aggressively pleasant, and Zayn is immediately suspicious. Nine times out of ten, Louis only looks aggressively pleasant when he wants something or he‟s hiding something. The rare times when he is actually being aggressively pleasant are also somewhat terrifying, so no good can come of this.

  
“Zayn, my boy. Have I ever told you that you‟re my favourite?” Louis says cheerily, slapping him on the back. Yeah, Zayn is never ignoring his instincts again.

  
He sighs dramatically. “What do you want, Tomlinson?”

 

Louis clutches his imaginary pearls. “Surely you aren‟t questioning my sincerity? Can‟t a man just pay an innocent compliment to his friend, devoid of any ulterior motive?”

  
Zayn takes a sip of his coffee and feels a little better already, enough to laugh and shove Louis away from him lightly. “A man can. You can‟t.”

  
Louis just grins, wrapping an arm around Zayn‟s shoulders. “I am stunned, stunned, I say, at your accusations. Wounded, even. Luckily, I know just how you can make it up to me.”

  
Years of experience have taught Zayn not to bother putting up a fight when Louis gets like this. Last time he tried, Louis had sulked for days and somehow Zayn had been the one who ended up apologising. He really needs to get more friends. “Fine, fine, Jesus. What do you want?”

  
“That‟s the Zayn I know and love,” Louis says. “You‟re free tonight, yes?”

  
God, Zayn would love to have something planned, something written in red on his social calendar, but a thorough search of his brain turns up nothing. Not even the biweekly English department happy hour, which he always finds an excuse to skip. Damn, damn, and thrice damn.

  
“Yes, I‟m free,” he sighs.

  
Louis claps his hands gleefully. “Not anymore! You‟re coming with me to the football match tonight.”

  
Zayn furrows his brow at his coffee “The football match? Why‟re you going—“ and then it dawns on him. “Oh.” He turns to look at Louis with amusement. This is too good. “Oh.”  
Louis scowls. “Don‟t make that face at me.”

  
“Face?” Zayn says. “What face?” He grabs the coffee pot and goes about topping off his mug. “I‟m just pleased to see that little Louis is learning to play well with others.”

  
“Fuck off, Malik,” Louis says, but Zayn can hear the laugh behind it. “Look, he mentioned it, I said I‟d go, and it‟d be weird if I have to sit there alone the whole time, all right? I‟m just doing him a favour. That‟s all this is.”

  
Zayn just raises his eyebrows as he stirs in a teaspoon of sugar.

  
“I hate you,” Louis says petulantly. Zayn says nothing, just turns to look at Louis over the rim of the mug as he takes another sip.

  
“Fine,” Louis says. “Maybe I wouldn‟t mind seeing him run back and forth down the sidelines for ninety minutes, but you don‟t get to be smug about it. I‟m only human, and you said yourself he was fit.” He looks at Zayn expectantly. “Okay?”

  
Zayn sets the mug down and smirks. “Fine, I‟ll go. But after this we‟re even, all right?”

  
Louis snorts. “You tried to set a grease fire in my kitchen once, Malik, we are not anywhere near even.” He turns to walk out of the lounge, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

  
“You blew that whole thing way out of proportion!” Zayn calls after him.

  
“See you at seven!” Louis sing-songs back as the door swings shut.

  
Zayn curses and starts another pot of coffee. Yes, definitely a long day.

  
Stealing art supplies from his own classroom makes Zayn feel like a bit of a weirdo, but it more than pays off that night when Louis spots him in the stands with a giant "GO TEAM" sign covered in glitter. His face. Half baby tasting lemon for the first time, half cat being given a bath. Beautiful.

  
Louis makes his way up to where Zayn is sitting. “I‟m going to murder you and feed your body to Duchess,” he says, snatching the sign from Zayn‟s hands and shoving it under his seat before anyone sees him with it. “And she will vomit you back up, because you are not worthy of her digestive tract.”

  
“Oh, hello Zayn, thank you so much for coming!” Zayn says in a high-pitched voice. “You‟re doing me a huge favor, and I really owe you one. You‟re the best friend a complete wanker like me could ever have.” He looks at Louis pointedly. “Sorry, just filling in the bits you forgot to say.”

  
“Shut up,” Louis says. “It‟s about to start.”

  
He turns his attention to the pitch, where the players and coaches are shaking hands. Zayn spots the object of Louis‟ myopia, dressed in a white shirt and black slacks. Yeah, he still gets it. The guy is very, very easy on the eyes. And he‟s a decent sort of bloke, too, which is always a plus. Sure, he doesn‟t have the soft brown eyes or saint-like demeanor of other, more desirable men, but when has Louis‟ taste ever been as good as Zayn‟s?

  
The clock starts, and the players take off across the field. Zayn soon gets immersed in the game, to his pleasant surprise. For a bunch of teenagers, they‟re not bad, and the match is hard-fought. Perhaps there‟s something to be said for Harry‟s coaching abilities. Before long it‟s halftime, with a score of 1-1.

  
He turns to look at Louis, who‟s been uncharacteristically quiet the whole match. When they watch football together, he‟s usually yelling at the screen, screaming at players and refs alike. “Not bad so far, eh?” Zayn says, nudging Louis with his elbow.

  
Louis startles, as if waking from a dream. “Oh, um, yeah,” he says, “It‟s good, the, uh, the football.” He squints at the pitch. “Where are the players?”  
Zayn looks at him questioningly, waiting for the punchline. It doesn‟t come.  
“It‟s… it‟s halftime, Louis.”  
“Right!” Louis says cheerily. “Halftime. Yes. I knew that. One of my favorite times, halftime.”  
“Are you—have you been watching the game at all?” Zayn says, incredulous. Louis loves football. Well, Louis also hates football, but to be fair that‟s a big part of loving football.

Louis puts on a defensive face. “Of course I have! I don‟t know what you‟re talking about.”

  
Zayn sits back and folds his arms. “All right, then. What happened when our side got awarded a penalty? Did we convert it or not?”

  
Louis opens and closes his mouth, glances at the scoreboard, and says, “We made it, obviously. As if we‟d miss.”

  
Triumphant, Zayn leans forward. “There wasn‟t a penalty, you tit. Did you go into a coma or something? What‟s wrong with you?” he says, but Louis is already distracted, looking down toward the sideline.

  
Zayn follows his eyeline, and suddenly everything makes sense. He can see the little blank square in his mental calendar dancing smugly before his eyes, and the song it‟s dancing to is called Louis Tomlinson‟s Ruination.

  
“Oh, I see,” he says, smirking. “It‟s a lust coma.” Harry‟s gesturing wildly to some of the players, outlining tactics in the air, his shirtsleeves rolled up. Louis might as well be drooling. “Man, you are out of your fucking depth, aren‟t you?”

  
“Fuck off,” Louis says lightly, still looking at Harry. He‟s even half-smiling, the poor bastard. “He‟s hot, I‟ve got eyes. There isn‟t any depth for me to be in or out of.”

  
“I‟ve got eyes too, in case you‟ve forgotten,” Zayn says. “And I have never seen you like this, no matter how hot the guy.” He flicks Louis on the ear and grins when he curses.

“I‟ve been reliably informed that I am extremely hot, and you have never once ignored football to stare longingly at me. Or any of the blokes you‟ve shagged and then callously tossed aside, for that matter.”

  
Louis rubs his ear. “I am not callous, you twat. It‟s not my fault so many men are so… toss-aside-able. Anyway, you don‟t know what you‟re talking about. This is a purely aesthetic appreciation.”

  
Unfortunately for Louis‟ point, Harry picks this moment to glance up into the stands. He spots Louis and waves excitedly, grinning like a loon. Louis waves back, with a look on his face that‟s pure sunshine under the pitch‟s fluorescent lights.

  
Normally Zayn would be thrilled to know he was right, to see Louis so thoughtlessly delighted, but for just one moment he feels terribly sad. Louis swore off getting into relationships with actual feelings before Zayn even met him, and Zayn wasn‟t kidding when he said he‟s never seen him like this. He hadn‟t realised how rare it was for Louis to be at ease, to be happy, until he actually saw it happen. It‟s amazing, and sad, and terrifying, and he wonders if Louis honestly doesn‟t realise what‟s going on, or if it‟s just an act. Louis doesn‟t like to talk much about the lads he dated before he moved to Manchester, but Zayn knows he keeps himself locked up for a reason.

  
Zayn reaches out to ruffle Louis‟ hair, knocking his glasses askew. “Whatever you say, man,” he says, and tries to put his worries away for the rest of the match.

  
It works, and he goes back to enjoying the game without thinking about his best mate slowly descending through the stratosphere of his own disillusionment with romance and hurtling toward the hard reality of Harry Styles. Toward the 80th minute, Zayn glances over to see Louis staring at Harry like Louis is stranded on a desert island and Harry‟s just turned into a giant, dancing steak, and okay, yes, this is definitely funny again.

  
“You know, Louis,” Zayn says idly, “There‟s this place called the Internet, where you can look at all the attractive men you want. For free, even. Some of them haven‟t even got pants on.”

  
“Piss off,” Louis says dreamily.

  
They win the game, 3-2, though Zayn doubts Louis could tell you the final score with a gun to his head.

  
“Come on, I want to say hi to Haz,” Louis says as the sparse crowd starts getting to its feet and filtering out of the stands.

  
“Haz?” Zayn says. He turns around, effectively blocking Louis‟ progress out of the row. “When did you two progress to nicknames?”

  
“Move your arse,” Louis says, ignoring him with a shove.

  
They file down the stands, heading toward the fence that divides the spectators from the sideline. When they reach it, Harry jogs over, clapping some of his players on the back along the way before coming to a stop in front of the fence.

  
“Hey, I‟m so glad you could make it,” he says, flushed with victory. “You too, Zayn, thank you so much for coming.”

  
“Not a problem, mate,” Zayn says, pretending that even a tenth of the attention in this conversation is focused on him. “Your lads put on a good show.”

  
“Yeah, they were great,” Louis says, the liar. “Brilliant.”

  
Harry smiles at him broadly. Zayn is going to throw up. “Well, it always helps to know we‟ve got friendly faces in the stands,” Harry says. “And you, um, the two of you are pretty much the only faces I‟m friendly with so far, short of Niall. So seriously, thanks a lot.”

  
“Anytime,” Louis says, and Zayn‟s future spreads out before him, filled with nights spent sitting on uncomfortable plastic seats, watching Louis swoon. “Anytime” his arse. He‟s going to have to develop a social life purely out of self-defense.

  
Harry scrubs a hand through his ridiculous hair and looks apologetic. “I‟m really sorry, but I‟ve got to go help with the post-match talk. It‟s, um, kind of my job,” he says, grinning ruefully.

  
“Yeah, no, go on,” Louis says. “Go congratulate the troops.”

  
Walking backwards, Harry salutes them both. “See you tomorrow?” he asks, looking at Louis.

  
“Yeah, of course,” Louis says, and Zayn can‟t help but roll his eyes at the way his cheeks color. “Tomorrow.” He watches Harry turn and walk off the pitch with the last straggling players.

  
Louis turns and looks at Zayn with sad, pathetic satisfaction in his eyes. “See? That was a perfectly platonic, friendly interaction.”

  
Zayn gapes at him a moment, then turns on his heel and walks toward the carpark.

  
“What?” Louis calls after him. They‟re all doomed. “Zayn, you‟re imagining things!” Doomed.

 

.......

-L-

“Not liking things that are delicious doesn‟t give you class, Lou, it just makes you a snob,” Harry says, dropping his hand down on the hole puncher as if to emphasize his point.

  
They‟re in Louis‟ classroom again, papers spread out on the desks before them. Harry is always nagging Louis about letting him help with his work, which would normally be sweet, except that Harry‟s interpretation of “help” often consists of him doing dramatic readings the scenes Louis‟ students write for practice, complete with funny voices. While that certainly eases the pain of marking, it doesn‟t actually make Louis get his work done faster. Today, since Louis is swamped with menial tasks, he‟s put Harry to work punching holes in pages of the script for Much Ado About Nothing while Louis puts them into binders. That‟ll teach him to try to be nice.

 

“It‟s not that I don‟t like things that are delicious,” Louis says. He straightens a stack of pages and threads them through the rings. “I just don‟t like things that make me violently ill in the cab on the way home.”

  
“So-called „girly drinks‟ are made of sunshine and booze,” Harry tells him as he punches another set of holes. “If you don‟t like them, that just proves that you‟ve got an allergy to happiness.”

  
Louis rolls his eyes. “You mean to tell me that you‟re the one always parading around the pub with one of those drinks in the giant glasses with the little umbrella on top?”  
“Yeah, in case of a tiny rainstorm,” Harry says logically. He does a little pantomime like he‟s holding up a tiny umbrella over his head, and, what? God. It‟s so endearing that Louis can‟t even say anything mean back. Who is this person? Where did he come from? Is there some magical tropical island somewhere where Harry Styleses drop from trees like coconuts?

  
“Fair enough,” Louis says, hiding his laughter behind Act II. “Still, there‟s something to be said for good scotch.”

  
“There‟s something to be said for bingo on cruise ships, too, but since I‟m not a million years old I think I‟ll pass,” Harry says, wrinkling his nose.

  
Louis makes a noise of indignation. “What‟s that supposed to mean?”

  
“It means that scotch—like all the other brown drinks—” he says, pulling a face of childish disgust, “Is for people who are old and boring and have no imagination. So neither of us should drink it.”

  
“So I should be like you and give myself diabetes?” Louis counters.

  
“Right, you don‟t drink them because you‟re so health-conscious,” Harry teases, poking him in the ribs with the hole puncher. “Sure.”

  
“All right, fine,” Louis surrenders. “Maybe I do enjoy the occasional mojito. When I‟m in the mood.”

  
“A good choice! And they‟re fun to say, too. Mo-ji-to.” Harry rolls the word around in his mouth, accentuating each syllable. Louis supposes it is a pretty enjoyable sound.

  
“Mooo-jiiii-toooo,” he tries. Okay, it‟s a fun word. Harry smiles and answers back.

  
“Mooooooooooooo-jito.”

  
“Mo-jiiiiiiiiiiii-to.”

  
“Mojito-mojito-mojito.”

  
“Mo-ji-TOOOOOOOOO—” The last one is almost a shout, one that Louis cuts off when he sees Niall standing in the doorway, looking perplexed. There‟s no telling how long he‟s been there.

  
The three of them look at each other in silence for a moment. Niall furrows his brow. “Mojito?” he asks.

  
“Mojito,” Harry answers firmly. Niall looks at Louis for confirmation.

  
“Mojito, mojito,” he says quickly, nodding his head.

  
Niall nods back solemnly and leaves, looking satisfied.

  
Louis stares after him, then turns to look at Harry. He shrugs, trying to hide a smile, and goes back to punching holes in scripts. The charade lasts less than a minute though, and when Harry whispers “mojito” in the tiniest possible voice, Louis slides off his chair and laughs until he cries.

  
It‟s not the first time that Harry “helping” him ends with Louis half-laughing, half-sobbing underneath his desk, and it isn‟t the last, either. As the semester progresses, most of their individual projects become shared somewhere along the line, and while Harry helps out with whatever Louis asks him to, half the time he winds up being a distraction. It goes both ways; Louis is still powerless to say no to almost anything when Harry‟s doing the asking, and going to football matches is hardly the end of it.

  
Harry watches some ridiculous American movie and comes up with the idea of putting on a carwash to raise some money to buy the team some new uniforms, and the next thing Louis knows, he‟s standing in the carpark in October with his trousers rolled up to his knees and a small arsenal of sponges. Louis doesn‟t even like washing his own dishes. Things may be getting slightly out of hand.

  
Then again, Niall and Zayn volunteered as well when Harry mentioned that he‟d need a couple more hands to keep things running, so really, Louis is just doing this out of the goodness of his heart. To help his friend. And, you know, school spirit and all that. Plus, the sun gives him an excuse to wear his new aviators, and that‟s honestly just a public service.

  
So it‟s been a Saturday afternoon of filling up buckets and passing bottles of soap along and generally overseeing, because as much as Louis may want to do things for Harry, he does not deign to wash other people‟s cars. Besides, the boys from the team have mostly got that covered. There‟s a lot of shirtlessness and scrubbing and throwing sponges at each other despite the chill in the air. Louis privately thinks the whole thing is a bit homoerotic, honestly, but then again he‟s never fully understood the thought processes of the heterosexual male, much less the sporty teenage ones.

  
Harry and Zayn have been flitting between cars making sure the drivers know where to go and occasionally grabbing a rag to help, and Niall has set up some speakers a little way down the carpark, bumping a mixture of top forty pop and Jay-Z while they work. One of the players must have tipped off a friend or something, because about an hour after Zayn showed up, a small crowd of female students started congregating at the edge of the carpark and have been watching the proceedings like giggly, hormonal hawks.

  
The flow of cars is steady, and by mid-afternoon they‟ve raised a decent amount of money, more than half of their goal. Harry has also kept his shirt on the entire day, which Louis thinks he should probably count as another victory. Whoever the patron saint is of avoiding public arousal, Louis owes them one. He‟s beginning to think that they may make it through this whole thing without incident.

  
That bubble is summarily burst as Harry comes over to where Louis is loitering by the hose and refreshments. Pouring water into buckets is thirsty work, all right. “Hey, Louis,” Harry says, looking at something in the distance over Zayn‟s shoulder. “What does that fireman of Zayn‟s drive?”

  
“Something really boring and sensible, I think,” Louis tells him. He‟s so busy refilling a bucket of suds that the implication of the question doesn‟t actually hit him for a few moments, but then— “Oh God, no.”

  
Louis follows the line of Harry‟s eyes to the dark gray SUV that‟s idling a couple of spots back in the line and then zeroes in on the driver and, yes, of course, there‟s a handsome, good natured face smiling pleasantly at the world around him. Obviously he could never pass up an opportunity to be philanthropic. Leave it to Zayn to become obsessed with the actual most wholesome human being in this hemisphere.

  
“Zayn is going to have a fucking meltdown,” Louis says. “He hasn‟t even got on his tight trousers.”

“We‟ve got to do something,” Harry says, his eyes going huge. “Can you text him or something? Just, you know, heads up, love of your life is here, probably stop making that face when you‟re washing tires?”

  
“Can‟t, he gave me his mobile so it wouldn‟t get wet,” Louis says, fishing it out of his back pocket to show Harry.

  
“Shit,” Harry says, but then his face splits into a look that Louis can only describe as trouble.

  
“Oh, no,” he says.

  
“I‟ve got an idea,” Harry says, whipping out his own phone. “Run get Niall and a hose. Have him bring the sound system over here.”

  
Louis knows he should be asking questions, but Harry‟s enthusiasm has him springing into action without a second thought. Niall seems skeptical when Louis approaches him, but as soon as he hears that it‟s in the service of Zayn‟s destiny and also taking the piss out of him, he‟s wheeling the cart with the stereo system on it over eagerly. The dark grey SUV has crept forward a spot in line, but Louis thinks they‟ll still have time for whatever Harry‟s got planned.

  
“Brilliant, Niall, you‟re the best,” Harry says when he sees them approaching. “Can we hook my phone up to these speakers?”

  
Niall shrugs. “Yeah, of course.” He takes the proffered phone and starts plugging in cables.

  
Louis turns to Harry. “Want to let us in on what hijinks we‟re up to, exactly?”

  
Harry grins evilly. “We‟re throwing Zayn a wet t-shirt contest for one,” he says, looking over at the line of cars. “Shit, it‟s almost showtime. Louis, fold the hose in half and turn the water on. Niall, is the phone ready to go?” Louis sees Niall give a double thumb-up and moves to follow Harry‟s instructions.

  
Harry picks up his phone, his finger poised over a button. “Louis, on my say-so, release the water and soak Zayn.”

  
“Aye-aye, captain,” Louis says, grinning. He has privately thought that Zayn needed to be hosed down on more than one Liam-related occasion, but this is even better. Harry is possibly a genius.

  
All three of them have their eyes trained on Zayn as he finishes up the car in front of the SUV, blissfully unaware of their plans for him. He walks to the driver‟s side window and says something that makes the woman inside laugh, then points to the station ahead where she can give her donation to one of Harry‟s lads from the team. The car accelerates, pulls away, and...

  
“Now,” Harry says.

  
Louis releases the kink in the hose and points it straight at Zayn‟s back. The jet of water strikes him square between the shoulder blades, soaking his white t-shirt through and through immediately. On some terrible instinct Zayn turns around, trying to shield himself with his arms, but all that does is drench his chest as well. When he‟s looking good and soggy, Louis lowers the hose, satisfied with his handiwork. Zayn just stares at them, murder in his eyes and water in his quiff.

  
“Sorry, Zayn!” Louis says cheerfully. “Completely lost control of the hose there!”

  
“Yeah, Louis, I noticed,” Zayn shouts back, and Louis knows the fact that they‟re surrounded by students is the only thing keeping Zayn from adding “you fucking arsehole” to that.

  
He turns his back on them, reaching to pull off his soaked shirt, and Harry hits play. For a moment, for one glorious moment, Louis thinks there must actually be something to this whole destiny thing Zayn believes in so adamantly, because in that moment, everything aligns. The first chords of “Rock You Like a Hurricane” rip through the carpark in perfect time with Zayn‟s footsteps as he walks toward Liam‟s car, peeling his sticking shirt off over his head, and just then a cloud moves and the late afternoon sun hits him from behind, and okay, wow. Zayn shakes his hair out just as the guitar really kicks in, and if Louis didn‟t know better, he‟d swear that Zayn is moving in slow motion. It is actually the most ridiculous thing Louis has ever seen, but it‟s also kind of the best thing that has ever happened.

  
Then Zayn looks up.

  
“Fuck,” Louis says under his breath, glancing back. Harry‟s got one fist pressed to his mouth in anticipation, eyes darting from Louis to Zayn to Liam and back again. Niall is next to him, whispering, “Yes, yes,” to himself, his eyes wide.

  
For half of a second, Zayn seems frozen in place. He stares at Liam. Liam stares back, and then gives a tiny little wave.

  
This, it seems, is enough to snap Zayn out of his stupor. A change comes over him, rippling through his body from head to toe. He slings his shirt over one shoulder, rolls his hips just a little to the side. As he covers the last stretch of pavement between himself and Liam, he is positively feline.

 

The bitch is hungry, scream the Scorpions, and Louis could not agree more.

  
Zayn downright saunters up to the window of Liam‟s SUV, leaning languidly against the side as he greets him. Liam, for his part, is wide-eyed but appears to be trying to carry on a normal conversation, bless him. The music blasts on and, oh, this is good.

  
Not taking his eyes off of the scene unfolding in front of them, Harry clasps Niall‟s hand, shaking it firmly, and then does the same to Louis. “Gentlemen, we have a lot to be proud of today.”

  
Louis can see Zayn flexing his pecs from here. A victory of this caliber deserves refreshments. He reaches down into the ice chest, snagging a can of soda and cracking it open.  
“You two are officially on the crew for the spring musical, because that is the highest production quality this school has ever seen,” he says. He lifts his drink toward them briefly in a mock toast before taking a swig.

  
“I don‟t think that bloke is prepared for how clean his car is about to get,” Niall says sagely.

  
“Oh, I‟m sure Zayn will take care of all his crevices,” Harry throws back, and Louis chokes on his drink.

  
Liam says something and Zayn makes a show of laughing at whatever it is, rubbing his hand over his stomach like it‟s the funniest thing he‟s ever heard. When he pulls his hand away, there‟s a smear of grease spanning half of his waist, too perfect to be accidental. He looks down and laughs again, and then bends down to the bucket, picks his rag back up, and deliberately wrings it out over his skin before beginning to slowly, thoroughly, actually rub himself down.

  
“Jesus Christ,” Niall says, both hands clutched to his face. Harry buries his face in Louis‟ shoulder.

  
“Observe, the Zayn in its natural habitat,” Louis says, slipping into his announcer voice. “A Zayn in the mating season is truly a magnificent thing to behold. See how he carefully greases and prepares his body for his mate. So majestic.”

  
“I can‟t handle this,” Niall says. “I. I wasn‟t prepared.” He takes his phone out and starts snapping pictures.

“This is the best thing I have ever done,” Harry says, fingers digging into Louis‟ side. “Do you think it‟s working?”

  
“It‟s hard to say,” Louis says. “This particular species of Tragic Fireman is often immune to the Zayn‟s potent pheromone.”

  
“Nature is amazing,” Harry says.

  
From what Louis can tell, Harry seems to have an entire playlist of „80s rock already on his iPhone. Louis wonders exactly what kind of life Harry has led up to now that would necessitate such a thing, but really, knowing Harry, it‟s not that surprising. He probably spent a summer abroad as part of a hair-metal nudist circus or something. “Rock You Like a Hurricane” fades into “Here I Go Again” and Louis half expects Zayn to climb up on the hood of Liam‟s car and writhe around for a while. He‟s thankful that he doesn‟t, though, because the girls on the side seem to be convulsing already, and he doesn‟t fancy having to turn the hose on any of them. He and Zayn get away with a lot, but that would still probably get him fired.

  
Zayn just carries on, washing Liam‟s car like he‟s in a damn calendar shoot. Louis wonders if Harry‟s managed to accidentally stumble upon the cure to Zayn‟s hopelessness with Liam. It sort of makes sense, when he really considers it. Two of the main driving forces behind all of Zayn‟s actions are his vanity and his inflated sense of romance, and creating a gratuitous public spectacle combines both of those into a Zayn Malik sex crème brûlée. Louis wonders why he never thought of it before.

  
“D‟you think it‟s really necessary for him to stick his arse out like that while he washes tires?” Niall says, head tilted slightly to the side like he‟s watching an interesting program on the telly.

  
“Technique is the key to a good rim job,” Louis says, and Niall doubles over in laughter. Harry looks like the cross between a proud parent and a scandalized nun, which, when Louis thinks about it, is exactly what he was going for.  
  
They‟re both distracted, though, by Zayn standing up, dipping the sponge back into the bucket of suds, and wringing it out over his face and neck. He shakes his head like a wet dog, scattering droplets everywhere before running his hands through his hair to get his fringe off his face. The suds run down his torso slowly, leaving behind shining trails that criss-cross his tattoos. Def Leppard wails on somewhere in the background. Pour some sugar, indeed.

  
“Not subtle,” Harry swallows. “But not ineffective either,” and Louis is too stunned to even try to interpret that.

  
“Christ, I think I felt something there,” Niall says. “Well played.”

  
“Well, let‟s hope that one did the trick,” Louis says, “because it looks like Zayn‟s time is up.” Every inch of Liam‟s car is sparkling, and the line behind it is going to get out of hand if things don‟t keep moving. Harry‟s been waving the boys toward other cars to keep them away from Zayn‟s blast radius, but even so there are too many people waiting for Zayn to keep this up.

  
Harry heaves a sigh and picks up his phone. “It was fun while it lasted,” he says, and cuts the music.

  
Zayn, who had been talking to Liam again while leaning up against his car in a ridiculously arched position, looks like a puppet with his strings cut, his posture suddenly slouching back to normal. He looks over at Louis, who jerks his head at the line of cars forming. Zayn pouts but turns back to Liam, pointing out the donation area up ahead.

Liam nods frantically and pulls away. Instead of going to the next car in line, though, Zayn jogs over toward the three of them.

  
“Tell me, Jessica Simpson, are your boots made for walking?” Louis says as he approaches.

  
“Fuck off, where‟s the hose?” Zayn says, shivering and looking around desperately. “I have so much soap in my eyes, Jesus Christ.”

  
Louis holds out the hose, but then pulls it back before Zayn can grab it.

  
“So you‟re saying you risked blindness to throw yourself at this guy,” Louis says. Harry and Niall are both laughing so hard they look like they‟re about to wet themselves.

  
“Fuck you, Louis, this fucking burns.” He snatches the hose from Louis‟ hands and starts washing the soap off his face. “Go distract him, I can‟t let him see me like this,” he says, cupping handfuls of water and bringing them up to his eyes.

  
“Are you seri—” Louis starts, but Harry interrupts.

  
“You can gather intel, Lou, go on,” and well, the man does have a point. Thankfully, there‟s a line at the donation area too, so Louis has time to saunter over before Liam‟s left.

Louis walks up to the driver‟s side window and leans over, doing his best to look normal-friendly and not your-discomfort-delights-me-friendly.

  
“Hello, there,” he says, offering his most winning smile.

  
“Hi,” Liam says. His face, Louis notices, is a very interesting shade of red, but beyond that, he still seems to be behaving as if this is an ordinary thing to happen to a man who just wanted to get a wash and wax for a good cause. “I, um, I think this is where I‟m supposed to give a donation?”

  
“Yes, right this way,” Louis says, gesturing elaborately to the group of teenagers just ahead. “We appreciate your contribution.”

  
“Great, thank you,” Liam says. “I‟m happy to help.”

  
Poor sod. Poor, oblivious sod.  
  
He pulls up, and Louis watches as he pulls out his wallet, counts out a couple of notes, pauses, and then empties the entire thing into the bucket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> este es mi favorito


	3. Three

-L-

"Rod Stewart," Harry says. Louis stares blankly at the contents of his refrigerator, phone wedged against his ear. Just moments ago he was standing here wondering how long ago he bought that feta cheese, and then Harry called and effectively commandeered all of his attention.

  
"What?"

  
"Rod Stewart,” Harry says again. “I was right. It was totally Rod Stewart, not Barry Manilow."

  
Louis leans against the door of the fridge, trying to pin down the sudden smile inching up his face. "Christ, that was like two weeks ago, Harold."

  
"Yeah, but I just remembered to google it," Harry tells him. Louis can almost see his shrug, the smug set of his mouth, and he‟s thankful Harry can‟t see the way his own smile keeps spreading.

  
"Well, I hope you're pleased with yourself," Louis says. He snags a jar of cherries off of the shelf and closes the door with his hip, twisting the lid off as he pads over to the kitchen counter.

  
"I am,” Harry says, and then he drops his voice and rasps down the line, “If you want my booody, and you think I'm seeexy, come on sugar let me knooow."

  
Louis squeezes his eyes shut for a moment but doesn‟t miss a beat. "Did you only call to serenade me with the smooth, sultry sounds of Not Barry Manilow?"

  
"Pretty much, yeah,” Harry says. “And there are a lot of songs by Not Barry Manilow, so you should settle in. It‟s going to be a long show."

  
Louis sets the jar down on the counter and leans against it. “Is that so?” Duchess leaps up to the counter, and Louis pets her absentmindedly.

  
“Mhmm,” Harry hums.

  
Louis can‟t help himself. “So you‟re going to keep me up all night, then?” he purrs. He hears a sharp intake of breath down the line that could be the start of a laugh, but before he gets to find out, Duchess swipes out a paw and bats the jar of cherries off the counter.

  
It hits the floor with a crash and shatters into a puddle of glass, cherries, and syrup that starts spreading alarmingly fast. “Shit, shit, shit,” Louis says, jumping across the kitchen to grab a dishtowel off the side of the sink. Duchess just watches him, her tail swishing angrily.

  
“Lou?” Harry‟s tinny voice reminds him he still has his phone between his ear and shoulder. “You all right? What happened?”

  
God, should he try to soak up the syrup or sweep up the glass first? “Jesus! Haz, I‟ve got to let you go, my cat‟s just broken a jar all over the floor, there‟s shit everywhere.”

  
“Have you got shoes on?”

  
“No.” Does he need a mop for this? Does he even own a mop?

  
“Are you at least wearing socks?” Harry‟s voice cuts into his thoughts again.

  
Louis makes a face, half at the sticky morass on his floor and half at the question. “When have you ever known me to wear socks?”

  
Harry sighs on the other end of the line. “See, this is why you should wear socks!”

“Really? This is why?” He pauses with his head in the cabinet under his sink, looking for a sponge. “Does this sort of thing happen to you often?”

  
“Just be careful,” Harry says, laughing a little.

  
He pulls a sponge and some rubber gloves out from under the sink. “Hazza, if I manage to be seriously injured by a broken jar tonight, I will deserve what I get.” He slides on the rubber gloves and starts picking up the biggest pieces of glass, dropping them in the rubbish bin. “But I might actually cut myself if I get distracted, so I‟m going to go now.”

  
“G‟bye,” Harry says cheerfully, and Louis takes the phone from his shoulder and hangs up.

  
As he finishes with the glass and starts sopping up the syrup, he glances up to the counter to see Duchess watching him, her ears lying back and her tail still thrashing.

  
"What?” he says, narrowing his eyes. “What's that look supposed to mean?"

  
Duchess just lifts her chin haughtily and squints at him.

  
"Oh, don‟t you start,” Louis says. “Look, just because I like him as a person, and just because he's extremely fit, and just because he makes me laugh and also sometimes makes me want to drown myself in a ditch, does not mean I fancy him.”

  
She tilts her head slightly to one side, a mixture of condescension and pity that Louis frankly finds insulting coming from someone who shits in a box.

  
Louis points accusingly at her with one rubber gloved hand. “Stop looking at me like that!”

  
Duchess lifts a paw and grooms it daintily. I have resigned myself to the fact that my owner is a pathetic idiot, her face seems to say.

  
“What do you know, hmm?” Louis says, glaring. “What do you know about human emotions? You‟re a fucking cat, you don‟t even have feelings.”

  
She lowers her paw slowly, looking wounded, and Louis feels guilty immediately.

  
“Okay, I shouldn‟t have said that, I‟m sorry,” Louis says, hopping over the mess and reaching out a hand to pet her. She recoils from his hand with a glare. “I‟m sorry! Don‟t give me the eyes, oh God. Here.” He plucks up a cat toy from nearby and shakes it in front of her impassive face. “You want the little jingly feather ball on a stick? Look, it‟s your favorite!”

  
Duchess just keeps staring at him as if he is something she threw up on the carpet.

  
“Oh for God‟s sake, don‟t pout,” Louis says, dropping the toy. “Okay, fine. Maybe I fancy him. Just a little.”

The look on her smushed cat face remains deeply unimpressed, and Louis moans in exasperation. His cat is an arsehole, but she‟s not wrong.

  
The thing is, he knows how he feels about Harry. He‟s known for weeks, really, maybe even longer. He‟s not an idiot, as much as his cat seems to think otherwise. He knows that giddy, restless feeling in his fingers and that electric warmth in his chest and what it means when his head fills up with noise every time Harry says his name. But it‟s one thing to know something about yourself and another thing to really accept it and deal with the consequences, and Louis doesn‟t have any interest in the latter at all. He‟s twenty-five years old, and he told himself long ago he can‟t afford to have feelings like this anymore. It always ends the same.

  
As long as he doesn‟t deal with it, doesn‟t put a name on it or make it real, it doesn‟t matter. It can just stay in the places between his bones, this unspoken thing that doesn‟t change anything or make him forget the reasons he shored up all these defenses in the first place. And if sometimes when he thinks about Harry he catches himself smiling for no reason, that‟s nobody‟s damn business but his own.

  
But Duchess is still looking at him like that and, God, he‟s never forgiving himself for the one time he let his mum keep her while he was out of town, because he‟s sure Duchess picked this up this from her.

  
“Okay, I fancy him a lot!” he half-shouts. “I have a big dumb crush on Harry. Are you happy now? Is this what you want from me?”

  
He slumps over the counter, head in his rubber gloves and feet sticking to the floor and guilted into emotional honesty by his cat. Duchess makes a satisfied sound and leaps down onto the floor, leaving a trail of sticky pink paw prints out of the kitchen.

 

...........

They all ribbed Zayn for days after the car wash, teasing him about his performance and Liam‟s sizable donation and suggesting he pursue a career as an exotic dancer since he seems to have such a high profit margin. In the weeks since, though, Liam hasn‟t so much as popped by for a visit, and they‟ve given up, chalking the contribution up to Liam‟s ridiculously good nature. Zayn has once again returned to looking consumptive and tragic all the time. Business as usual, really.

  
As is traditional when Zayn sinks into a particularly deep funk, Louis takes it upon himself to stage Sad Movie Night. Maybe it's something about Zayn's penchant for high drama and tragic romance, but it seems that lying on the couch with a bottle of wine and crying his eyes out over a couple of star-crossed morons always makes him feel better immediately. Whatever. Louis hates watching this kind of shit on a normal day, but he'll take one for the team. Besides, if it gets Zayn to stop haunting the halls like he's in a damn Bronte novel and tweeting things like loving you is painful x all i want is you :( it'll be worth it.

  
Harry‟s been missing in action for a few days, too busy working on a big project for school to come around in the afternoons, but he‟s up for it as soon as Louis texts him about it. He claims that Titanic is his second favorite movie and offers to bring his own DVD, which, really, Louis should have seen that one coming. As usual, Niall only agrees to sit through it when promised that free beer and nachos will be provided for him, and the four of them set a time on a Friday night to meet at Zayn‟s flat.

  
Louis is halfway down Zayn‟s hall when he hears footsteps coming up fast behind him, and he has just enough time to think oh shit I am about to be mugged before he drops his bag and turns around and finds himself with his arms full of Harry Styles.  
  
The collision knocks him back a few steps and his arms come up around Harry‟s waist on reflex, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt. Oh, God. Perhaps a mugging would have been kinder.

  
“Hi!” Harry says. Louis is pretty sure some of Harry‟s hair is in his mouth. He is focusing on this because if he thinks too hard about the feeling of Harry‟s arms around him and Harry‟s body pressed up against his he might not make it out of this hallway.

  
“Hello,” he manages.

  
Harry lets him go, moving back a step or two as Louis regains his balance. “Sorry,” he says, grinning. “Haven‟t seen you in a while.”

  
Louis ignores the flush threatening to spread across his face. “How‟d your project go?”

  
“Brilliant!” Harry says. “Got my critiques today, my professor loved it.”

  
“A man of taste, then,” Louis says, and the way Harry smiles at that makes Louis stupidly proud of himself. They fall into step with each other, Harry with a couple of shopping bags hanging off his arms and Louis shouldering his own bag. It‟s nice just to have Harry next to him again chattering on about his project, and all the positive energy radiating off of him has Louis starting to feel a bit giddy himself.

  
When Zayn opens the door, he‟s wearing his oldest hoodie over his slouchiest tank top, looking like the droopiest, most pitiful version of himself.

  
“Awww,” Louis says, “look at my favorite sad laundry pile.”

  
“Did you bring the wine?” Zayn says in lieu of greeting.

  
Louis leads the way inside, Harry following close behind. “Yes. Three bottles. Tell me you love me.”

  
“I hate you less than I hate everything else right now,” Zayn says. He takes one of the bottles and makes his way into the kitchen where Niall is already at the counter, sprinkling a mountain of cheese over his nachos.

  
“Thank God you‟re here,” Niall says. “Another five minutes alone with this one and I may have killed myself.”

  
“I‟m in an emotional state,” Zayn says hotly. Louis reaches over and gently takes the corkscrew out of his hand, deciding that Zayn should perhaps not be allowed to touch any potential murder weapons tonight.

  
“I brought the movie, and also popcorn,” Harry says as he starts dumping his bags out on the counter. “And chocolates, which we can mix in the popcorn.”

  
“I love you,” Niall says, abandoning his cheese momentarily to snatch up a bag of chocolates. Harry beams at him.

  
“How come you never talk to me like that?” Louis says, pouting at Zayn.

  
“Because you‟re a twat,” Zayn says. Louis winks at him as he takes the bottle back and starts uncorking it himself, and Zayn turns to glower across the kitchen at Harry. “You‟re in an offensively good mood.”

  
“Sorry,” Harry says, still smiling. “Just one of those days where you feel like you can do anything, you know?”

  
“No,” Zayn says.

Louis gets the bottle open while Harry and Niall fight over who gets to use the microwave first, and Zayn snatches it out of his hands, foregoing the glasses on the counter to drink directly from the bottle. He slumps over to the sofa with it, and Louis sighs. Rule number one of Sad Movie Night: make sure to bring Zayn his own bottle.

  
He pops into the bathroom for a minute and returns to discover that everyone‟s shifted to the living room and the DVD menu is open on the television, playing a loop of “My Heart Will Go On.” Louis loves Celine Dion as much as the next theatre-worshipping gay man, but the sound is already making him grit his teeth. The things he does for his friends, Jesus.

  
Niall‟s already staked out the only armchair and made himself at home with a beer between his knees and a plate of nachos balanced on one of the armrests, and Louis wonders how greasy his phone will be by the end of the night after playing Bejeweled with nacho-fingers all the way through the movie. On one end of the sofa, Zayn has curled up into the fetal position around his personal merlot, and on the other, Harry‟s sprawled out with his feet up on the coffee table. The only seat left is a narrow strip of space between Harry and Zayn, and Louis feels his stomach go funny when he realises he‟s going to spend the next three hours in the dark crammed up against Harry.

  
“Saved your spot,” Harry says, patting the empty half a cushion next to him.

  
Louis steps over Harry‟s legs, eyeing the so-called spot skeptically. “You two are seriously underestimating the amount of bum space I require.”

  
“No one‟s underestimating your bum,” Harry says. He slings one leg over Louis as soon as Louis sits down next to him, and, wow, Louis‟ life would probably be a lot easier without the knowledge of what it feels like to have the muscles of Harry‟s thigh stretched across his lap.  
  
Louis swallows, keeping his eyes on the television, and prods Zayn‟s arse with the remote control. “Ready?”

  
Zayn makes an incoherent sort of moaning noise in response, which Louis will take as a yes. The opening chords of the movie‟s score fill the room, mingled with the sounds of Niall crunching noisily from his chair.

  
Louis liked Titanic well enough the first time he saw it, but a passel of younger sisters and three years as Zayn Malik‟s best friend has beaten any lingering affection into the ground. At this point, the next three hours are going to be more of an endurance test than anything else. Normally he could entertain himself by making scathing commentary throughout, but if he tries that now Zayn will have his head, or at least be incredibly whiny about it. He does his best to focus on barely-legal Leonardo DiCaprio. At least that never gets old.

  
Harry must have seen this movie even more times than Louis has, but he wasn‟t kidding when he said it was one of his favorites. Bored, Louis finds himself watching Harry as much as the movie, marveling at the way Harry mouths along with half the lines. When they get to the sex scene, Harry stage-whispers, “Put your hands on me, Jack!” along with Kate Winslet, lurching sideways and throwing his arms around Louis‟ neck like he‟s having a swooning fit. Louis has to grab onto his thigh to keep them from falling over, and Harry breaks off giggling and falls back into his side of the couch, but one of his arms stays around Louis‟ shoulders.

  
Louis looks down at his lap, at Harry‟s leg thrown over it, at his own hand resting on Harry‟s thigh. They‟ve always been a bit physical with each other, but it‟s usually just pokes and slaps and elbows, never anything quite like this. It must just be Harry‟s good mood, Louis thinks, because that‟s the only option that doesn‟t make his nervous system go into crisis. Louis wants to lean back into his touch, wants to knock him backwards and climb on top of him, wants to jump up and run away as fast as he can, but he can‟t do any of that. He doesn‟t know what Harry wants from him, and even if he did, he can‟t even decide which option would be the most terrifying.

  
Instead, he settles for leaving his hand where it is and shifting his eyes back to the movie, and he feels Harry‟s fingers twitch a little on his shoulder. They sit there like that, watching Jack and Rose have sex, Harry‟s arm around him and Louis‟ hand on his thigh, and Louis tries very, very hard not to dig his fingers in when Rose‟s hand slides down the glass.

  
When the damned boat finally starts sinking, Louis distracts himself from Harry by assigning diving scores to the people jumping into the ocean, giving a silent 10 to the one who hits the propellor. His sadistic enjoyment, however, is interrupted by Kate Winslet being a self-sacrificing fool, and he can keep quiet no longer.

  
"Ugh, come on!” Louis shouts at the screen. “He‟s pretty, babe, but he‟s not that pretty.”

  
"Are you kidding?” Harry says, turning to gape at him. “That's, like, practically the best part of the movie!"

  
Louis gestures at the couple embracing onscreen. "‟You jump, I jump?‟ That‟s the biggest load of bullshit I‟ve ever heard. She had a chance to live!"

  
"She did live!" Harry argues.

  
"Yeah, barely,” Louis sneers. “She was nice and safe and warm on a lifeboat, and then she jumped back on the sinking ship and wound up almost freezing to death on a door. She's an idiot."

  
"It was for love!" Harry says, hands flapping so hard through the air that he almost upsets his popcorn.

  
"Fat lot of good love did her,” Louis says. “He died anyway, didn't he?"  
  
"That's not the point, though,” Harry says. “All they had was each other. She couldn‟t just leave him. It didn't matter if they lived or died as long as they were together."

  
Louis rolls his eyes. “That‟s rubbish. You always save yourself.”

  
“Would you two shut up?” Zayn snaps from his corner of the couch where he‟s still cuddling his bottle of wine. “I can‟t hear.”

  
Louis chucks a pillow at him but settles back into the cushions, returning his attention to Leo DiCaprio.

  
It‟s obviously not an argument that he and Harry are ever going to agree on, anyway. Harry is the posterboy for flowerchild optimism, and Louis is Louis, and, well. It‟s stupid, but there‟s this low, restless, creeping feeling in his gut, and it feels almost like jealousy. He tries to put it to the back of his mind, but it keeps coming back up, bitter on the back of his tongue. He keeps hearing it in his head, as long as they were together, and it‟s like a splinter under his skin that he can‟t quite pull out. How can Harry think that? Louis can‟t imagine a life that would allow him to be someone ruled by anything other than survival instinct.

  
It must be nice, Louis thinks, to have the luxury of thinking like that. To be able to afford the risk of letting himself believe in the possibility of a world where things really do work like that and everything turns out for the best. To have days where you feel like you can do anything instead of an endless string of days where you feel like you‟ve never done anything worth that kind of happiness.

  
Harry doesn‟t get it. He wears his heart on his sleeve because he hasn‟t any idea what the world is really like. Things don‟t always happen for a reason. Sometimes life is mean and pointless and people hurt you just because they can. Sometimes you fall in love with a person or a fantasy of the person you‟re going to be someday, and all it ever does for you is make you into something you hate, brittle bones and stone walls.

 

He's pulled out of his thoughts by the motion out of the corner of his eye of Harry lifting up his phone. Louis gets a hand in front of his face just before he hears the fake shutter sound of the camera going off. "Missed me," he says, peeking out from behind his fingers.

  
"I don't get why you won't let me take your picture," Harry says, pouting a bit, and Louis just laughs.

  
"Well, we can't have you finding out I'm a vampire, can we?" he says, patting Harry's thigh consolingly. He turns back to the film, and tries not to worry about what Harry might see in his eyes if he ever managed to catch him off-guard.

..........

When Louis first moved to Manchester, autumn was the hardest time of year. Back home in Doncaster when he was younger, he used to spend every autumn outside, racing Stan through backyards with pensioners shouting at them from their windows and wrestling with his sisters in piles of leaves. He remembers the smell of firewood and cinnamon, getting used to the itchy wool of the jumpers his mum bought him for the first cold snap, the tree on the corner of the street he used to live on and how it turned the brightest, deepest red. Summers were fun, but autumn was home.

  
Even now, a few years in, sometimes it‟s hard to shake the homesickness when the temperature drops and the leaves start to change, but Manchester is home now too. Manchester is Zayn ringing him from the nail salon to ask about a movie title he can‟t remember and Niall tripping him in the hallway and a bunch of teenagers who look at him like he‟s got the answers. Manchester is a flat that smells like him and Duchess curled up in the gap between the dryer and the wall. Manchester is boy with curly hair and a camera slung around his neck.  
  
So October rolls into November and November keeps moving. Much Ado rehearsals have taken off in earnest now, three nights a week and sometimes once on the weekend. His students seem to be taking to the material well, and he‟s pleased that nobody seems to be completely clueless about Shakespeare. He‟s never gotten along with the art teacher since that incident with the kiln two years back, so he always enlists Zayn to help him with painting the set, and Niall is on call for when he starts working with lights and microphones. Harry comes by regularly as well, as always eager to help out however he can. Louis watches with pride as they all plow on together, and he‟s got high hopes for when they open right before Christmas holidays.

  
Most people at the school aren‟t thinking so far in advance, though. Right now most of the students and faculty are focused on the end of the month. There‟s a school fair coming up the first weekend of November, put together by the student council in conjunction with two other nearby schools to raise money. It's the first time they've ever done anything like it, and the whole school is buzzing. The fair's going to take over the car park for half a week, setting up rides and games and booths, and it‟s all anyone in any of Louis‟ classes is talking about. It‟s the kind of thing Louis can easily imagine himself loving in his teens and also the kind of thing that he‟s sure he has long outgrown the ability to enjoy.

  
“Are you going?” Harry says one day, sitting on a desk in Louis‟ classroom and thumbing through a folder of his own prints.

  
Louis looks at him, trying not to be distracted by the way his fingers move. “Wasn‟t really planning on it.”

  
Harry pulls a face. “Come on, it‟ll be fun!” he says. “I‟m going.”

  
“I don‟t know,” Louis says, wondering how he feels outnumbered when it‟s only Harry. “I‟ve got a lot of marking to do this weekend.”

  
“You‟ve always got a lot of marking to do,” Harry argues. “You can blow it off for one night. Please? I want you to come.” He looks so serious about it, so earnest, and Louis can‟t say no. Not when Harry wants him there so much.

  
“All right, fine,” Louis relents, “I‟ll go.”

  
Harry pumps his fist in victory, and two days later, Louis is standing in front of the ticket booth wondering how on earth he let himself get dragged into this.

  
He gives the student council member staffing the entrance the requisite five pounds, and pockets the tape of tickets she hands him. He walks slowly into the fair, slightly overwhelmed by the sheer variety of sounds and sights around him. He may be here under duress, but he has to admit that the school‟s done an impressive job. There are game booths as far as the eye can see, smells of dozens of fried foods wafting through the air, and even a few rides. The Ferris wheel looks a bit rickety in the late afternoon sun, though, so Louis files it firmly under Do Not Partake.

  
He pulls out his phone and shoots Harry a text.

  
_i‟m here. where r u?_

  
He pockets the phone and starts wandering vaguely toward the assortment of food trucks and tents while he waits for a response. He‟s sure that none of the things they‟ve got to offer could possibly be good for the state of his hips, or his arteries for that matter, but it can‟t hurt to look.

  
He‟s just approaching a toffee apple stand when something collides heavily with his back, almost knocking him flat on his face. He lets out an undignified squawk, wrestling out of the alarmingly strong grasp of a smallish set of arms, and when he manages to turn around, there is one Niall Horan grinning at him like a lunatic.

  
“Louis, mate. This is the best thing this school has ever done,” Niall says manically, apparently impervious to the rays of pure disdain shooting from Louis‟ eyes. He reaches up and cups Louis‟ face roughly in both hands, as if about to impart the great secret of life. “They have fried butter, man. Fried. Butter.”

  
He laughs a short, terrifying laugh, and then he‟s gone, rushing off into the crowd.

  
Louis lifts a hand to his face in shock. There are smears of grease on his face where Niall‟s hands were on it. Oh, Horan will pay for this. A boundless supply of crap food may have given him some kind of lard-fueled invincibility, but nobody jeopardizes Louis Tomlinson‟s complexion and lives to tell the tale.

  
He‟s pulled out of his vengeful reverie by the buzz of his phone.

  
_ring toss!!!!!!_ Harry‟s message reads. Christ. How has he managed to surround himself with so many people that are so genuinely enthusiastic about these things?

  
He sighs and weaves his way through the crowds until he finds Harry at the ring toss, as promised. He‟s got a red scarf tucked into his pea coat and his camera bag strapped across his chest, looking every inch a respectable twenty-something artistic-type if it weren‟t for the studied seriousness of his ring toss stance. Louis holds back a snort of laughter at the way he‟s chewing on his lower lip, contemplating his next throw.

  
“Ring toss champion Harold Styles lines up his final toss,” Louis says in his best announcer voice. Harry looks up, surprised, but then grins when he sees who it is. He looks back at the game with a furrowed brow, playing along. “He‟s going for the gold here,” Louis continues. “It‟s all riding on this, the last toss of a legend…”

  
Harry throws the ring, which goes clattering off the tops of the bottles.

 

“No!” Louis shouts loudly, throwing up his hands and startling several nearby students. “What a blunder! You can only imagine the shock of the fans, of the people watching at home! What a colossal mistake! Oh, the humanity—” but then Harry‟s up in his space, putting a hand over his mouth even as he laughs.

  
“All right, all right, you‟ve made your point,” he says, smiling. “Stop making me feel worse about it.”

  
He slides his hand off Louis‟ mouth, and Louis ignores the fact that he can still feel his face flushing a bit from the sudden contact. Not for the first time in his life (or today, even), he thanks God for his ability to maintain a tan. He recovers quickly, sticking his tongue out at Harry.

  
“I am,” Harry says, leaning in conspiratorially, “surprisingly bad at this game. Been trying to win for a solid ten minutes, wasted half my tickets.”

  
Louis raises his eyebrows. “Surely there are better things you could be doing. Niall seems very adamant about the virtues of the fried butter.”

Harry grins and shrugs. “It‟s fun. And when I win, which I will,” he says, pointing a finger at Louis‟ doubtful look, “my victory will be all the sweeter.”

  
He tears off another ticket and hands it to the female student at the booth for another round. The girl hands him three more rings with a studied air of weariness that Louis can‟t help but admire.

  
“I suppose there is a certain tragic romantic appeal in continuing to play a game you know is rigged,” Louis says, leaning against the booth. He winks at the girl, who stares back at him blankly for a second before returning to her phone.

  
Snorting, Harry lines up another shot. “You know it‟s possible to enjoy things non-ironically, right?” He tosses the ring and curses under his breath when it goes skittering off the bottles. He looks up at Louis with a mix of humor and concern in his eyes. “Healthy, even.”

  
“Ah, yes, non-ironic enjoyment,” Louis says, gazing off into the distance. “I knew it once, in the halcyon days of my youth.”

  
Harry points at him, ring in hand. “I will break you of your cynicism yet. I will win one of these prizes for you, and you will be forced to admit that good things do happen in this world.”

  
Louis barks a laugh. “If you actually manage to win me a prize, I swear on my mother‟s uninhabited grave that I will attempt to sincerely enjoy this fair.”

  
“Challenge accepted,” Harry says, striking an athletic pose before tossing the second ring. Another miss. “God damn it,” he says, and then nods a quick “sorry” to the booth attendant. “How is this game actually this difficult? Am I defective?”

  
“I told you already, young Harold. This game is rigged, and you are wasting your time. More importantly, you are wasting my time,” Louis says archly.

  
“A rigged game can still be won, Tommo,” Harry says. Then he catches the last ring between his fingers and holds it up to Louis‟ mouth. “Blow.”

  
Louis stares at him. “You can‟t be serious.”

  
Harry just taps the ring lightly against Louis‟ lips, his stare expectant and unwavering. “Blow.”

  
Louis needs to pretend that the insistent way Harry‟s looking at him isn‟t making his brain chemistry run riot, so he makes a show of rolling his eyes and huffs out a breath through pursed lips.  
  
Grinning like he‟s already won, Harry turns back to the game, takes a deep breath, and tosses the ring. Louis watches as it bounces, bounces, and lands with a tinny clink around the neck of one of the bottles.

  
“Yes!” Harry yells, throwing up his arms in pure joy. “Victory is mine!”

  
“What,” Louis says.

  
“I believe I have earned a prize, have I not?” Harry says to the booth girl.

  
She nods and snaps her gum. “What d‟you want?” she asks, jerking her head towards the shelf behind her.

  
“I think I shall take that magnificent stuffed bear, thank you,” Harry says. When she hands it to him, he immediately turns to Louis, who still hasn‟t quite been able to stop staring at the ring around the bottle. It worked. Harry won. There is a God, and he is a dick.

  
Harry pushes the rather sizeable bear into Louis‟ arms. “Sorry, Lou,” he says with a smirk that says he is definitely not sorry at all. “Looks like you‟re going to have to be happy tonight, whether you want to or not.”

  
Louis gapes at him, helpless and clutching a comically large bear to his chest, and tries to pull himself together. Harry wants happy, sincere Louis? Fine. Fine. “I suppose a deal‟s a deal,” he says. “What wonders shall we enjoy next, oh fearless leader?”

  
“Oh, no you don‟t,” Harry says, shaking a finger at Louis. “That‟s still making fun of it, and that wasn‟t the deal. I don‟t want you to be ridiculous, or to fake anything.” He smiles softly. “Just relax and enjoy yourself. You think you can manage that?” he asks, poking Louis in the side. “You think that‟s in the realm of possibility?”  
  
Louis sighs and hugs the bear closer. At least the bear doesn‟t try to make him do things. Or feel things. “Yes,” he mutters into the soft fur petulantly.

  
Harry smiles like all his birthdays have come at once. “Brilliant.” He grabs Louis by the upper arm and starts walking toward the food area. “Now what were you saying about fried butter?”

  
They wander between the various booths offering refreshment, admiring what‟s on offer, and Harry ends up trading two tickets for a bag of deep-fried Oreos. He doesn‟t make Louis try that particular horrific concoction, but he smiles when Louis bites into a sausage with relish.

  
“I know I shouldn‟t,” Louis says, wiping grease off his bottom lip with his thumb, “And I know they're full of, like, pig anuses and whatnot, but they‟re just too good to turn down.”

  
“I know precisely what you mean,” Harry says, grinning at him. Louis feels a white-hot bolt of wishful thinking run through him, imagining what exactly Harry could be talking about. He has just enough time to think, wait, would he be implying I was full of pig anuses before that train of thought is derailed by the sight of Niall sprawled across a bench.

  
“Whatcha doin‟, Nialler?” he calls out in a sing-song tone. Niall opens his eyes and fixes Louis with a gaze. His face is the face of a man at peace.

  
“Digesting,” he says. He squints. “Where‟d the bear come from?”

  
“I won it for Louis at ring toss,” Harry says proudly, and hearing it in the presence of someone else makes Louis hyperaware of how it sounds, of what it could mean to objective ears. He freezes, hanging on Niall‟s reaction.

“Cute,” Niall says, closing his eyes. And maybe he doesn‟t read anything into it, or is too sated to care, but Louis knows someone else would ask questions, would look at Louis for answers and read the truth that‟s written even in the way he walks, swaying closer to Harry with every step. He‟s a pathetic bastard, even his cat knows it, and the only thing that‟s keeping it under wraps is Niall‟s codependent relationship with food.

  
“I try,” Harry says, turning to smile at Louis, and it‟s almost too much. “You could return the favor, you know,” he points out.

  
“What, win you something?” Louis asks, incredulous.

  
“Unless you don‟t think you‟ve got the skills.” Harry looks at Louis, all wide-eyed innocence, and Louis is going to interpret the heat that pools in his stomach as healthy competitiveness and nothing else.

  
“Please, Styles, as if you‟re any match for me. Let‟s head back to the games, I‟ll win so many plush toys you‟ll choke on them.”

  
“Is that a promise?” Harry asks, quirking an eyebrow, and honestly, fuck him.

  
“It‟s a threat,” Louis intones, trying to look as scary as one can while holding a giant teddy bear.

  
Harry bursts out laughing at that. “Fair enough. You head over and pick a game, I‟ll meet you there,” he says. “I‟ve got to use the toilet, and I figure you‟ll need plenty of time to get in the zone.”

  
“I live in the zone, Styles!” Louis shouts at Harry‟s retreating back. He sighs as soon as he‟s out of sight.

  
“You two make me want to vomit,” Niall says sleepily from the bench, his eyes still closed.

  
“That‟s probably just all the kebabs you‟ve just shoved into your gob,” Louis says. He throws the remains of his sausage at him.

  
Five minutes later he finds himself in front of the balloons and darts booth, struggling to pop a single one.

  
"Suddenly I feel much better about my ring toss skills," says a voice behind him, and by now Louis knows that voice well enough that he doesn't even have to turn around.

  
"Not now, Styles, I'm concentrating," Louis tells him. He holds the tip of his tongue between his teeth and tries very hard to keep his eyes on the balloons in front of him and not Harry sauntering up beside him, smiling as he props one hip up against the edge of the booth. He's got a cloud of cotton candy in each hand. One for himself and one for Louis. Damn it all.

  
"One dart left," Harry observes. "Pressure's on."

  
"You mock my ambitions," Louis says. "Some people take the sport of balloon popping very seriously."

  
"I am being serious," Harry says. "How else am I going to get my hands on one of those bears?"

  
"By winning your own, you lazy arse," Louis says. He lines up his shot, adjusts his glasses, aims—

  
And misses completely, dart landing wide left, because Harry chooses that moment to casually lick the crystallized sugar off of one long, slender finger.

  
"Guess I'll have to, then," Harry says. He's smirking when Louis turns to look at him properly, and Louis could almost swear the whole thing was on purpose.  
  
"Nobody likes a smartarse," Louis says. He snatches his cotton candy out of Harry's hand.

  
"Cheers," Harry says, taking an enormous bite of his own. When he speaks again, little bits of pink fluff fly everywhere. "Well, we found Niall. Where's Zayn?"

  
"Over there, hidden behind the horny masses," Louis says, pointing across the carpark to the crowd that's queued up.

  
“Ah, he‟s still on his shift?” Harry asks, picking bits of cotton candy from his fringe.

  
“So it would seem, the poor lad,” Louis says with a theatrical sigh. “You know, I think he only suggested the kissing booth as a joke, like in that movie he likes so much? The one that's the Shakespeare retelling? But people were remarkably enthusiastic about the idea.”

  
Harry snorts. “Wonder why.” The line is immense, full of female students, teachers, and what appear to be a few of the students‟ mothers. “Do you think we still have a chance? Line‟s moving quickly.”

  
“Have a chance? I‟ll throw elbows if I have to,” Louis says, and strides across the carpark, Harry close behind.

  
In line, Louis looks around, observing. Harry‟s right, the line is moving quickly, aided in part by the strictly-enforced cheek-kiss-only rule. Louis sees about half of his actresses in line, giggling to each other over their own nerve, and he makes a mental note to remind Zayn to come looking as frumpy as possible next time he comes to help paint the set during rehearsal.

  
Harry nods his head over to a cluster of boys off to the side. “Some of my lads over there, watching the show. Think they‟re jealous?”  
  
Louis gives them a once-over, noticing that not all of them are watching the girls. “Jealous of who?” he says wryly.

  
Eyes bugging, Harry looks back at his players. “You don‟t think—interesting,” he says. Louis just hopes the redheaded one learns to keep his eyes to himself if he wants to be anywhere near subtle.

  
Before Harry can say anything else, it‟s their turn. Zayn looks only moderately homicidal, both his cheeks colored by several layers of lipgloss and lipstick, until he looks up to see who his next customer is. The absolute despair that comes over his face when he sees them makes Louis extremely proud of himself.

  
“Get it over quick, would you,” he says, with the air of a man condemned.

  
“My love!” Louis cries, setting the bear on the ground. “So long we have been parted, but no longer! At last, I have found you again, and from this day forth we shall never be separated.” He drapes himself across Zayn‟s booth, and Zayn‟s hands fly into the air like someone‟s just spilled something unpleasant on him.

  
“Swear you shall set these, these pretenders aside and remain with me forevermore,” Louis continues, gesturing expansively to the bemused members of the line behind him. Harry, for his part, is laughing uproariously. “Swear to me, my one and only. Light of my life, fire of my loins, my Zaynlita.”

  
Zayn looks down at him with an impassive face that would be frightening if Louis weren‟t congenitally immune to threats from men with lip imprints on their face. “I will dedicate my life to making sure that the remains of your body are as small as possible,” he says.

  
“Good enough for me,” Louis says. He stands up, tears a ticket off, and holds it between his teeth. He raises his eyebrows at Zayn and looks down at the ticket suggestively. God, he is hilarious.

“Not a fucking chance,” Zayn says, and snatches the ticket with his hands. He grabs Louis by the cheeks and kisses him roughly on the forehead before shoving him away. “Next!”

  
Louis stands aside as Harry walks up, sedately hands Zayn his ticket, and then leaps over the booth to tackle him to the ground. Watching them wrestle in the dirt as scandalized fair-goers look on, Louis commends himself on his choice in friends and retrieves the bear.

  
When Zayn finally breaks free, he‟s roughed up but smiling. He shoves Harry out from behind the booth and into Louis, who catches him by the shoulders with the arm that isn‟t holding the bear. His fingers curl into the collar of Harry‟s coat, and Harry looks him right in the eye as they both try not to fall over laughing. Yeah, Louis maybe likes these people a little bit.

  
Zayn goes to sit back behind the booth but is stopped by one of the maths teachers from the second floor corridor in Louis‟ building. His name begins with a B, but Louis can‟t quite remember it with Harry ducking under his arm. Bradley? Bennett? Benjamin? Whoever he is, Zayn looks thrilled to see him.

  
“Your shift‟s up, Malik,” he says, clapping Zayn on the shoulder. There is an audible groan from the gathered crowd, and Louis sees one girl violently throw an ice cream cone to the ground as Zayn stands and the maths teacher takes his place. Bernard? Barry?

  
“Thanks, George,” Zayn says, and okay, you can‟t win them all. “Good luck.” George gives a salute as Zayn walks past Harry and Louis.

  
“Oi, where are you going?” Louis calls after him. Zayn turns but keeps walking backwards.

  
“I‟m going to, uh, check out the rides. Make sure they‟re up to safety code, you know,” he says, coloring. “Just in case.”  
  
“You‟re no fun anymore!” Louis yells at his back. Harry, still under Louis‟ arm, just blows a raspberry. Louis, for reasons he can‟t explain, lightly headbutts Harry in the temple.

“Where to next, then?” he asks, and Harry shrugs.

  
“You haven‟t won me a prize yet,” he points out idly, and Louis tips his head back and groans.

  
They wander back towards the games, and Louis spends about half an hour and most of his tickets discovering that he is, apparently, not good at any of them. Harry is supremely unhelpful, whispering into Louis‟ ear while he tries to shoot ducks and standing in his way during pin the tail on the donkey. Blindfolded, Louis walks right into him, and Harry just laughs.

  
Louis sighs and pulls the blindfold up. “You know, you might actually get something if you stop messing with me. You‟re working against your own interests, here.”

  
Harry grins and pulls the blindfold back down. “I‟m a complicated man,” he says, spinning Louis around again.

  
“You‟re a complicated dick,” Louis mutters, but he flails around for the donkey anyway.

  
Finally, several failures later, Louis is on his final ticket. He holds it up to Harry. “Last shot at a prize. How shall I waste it?” Harry looks thoughtfully at the ticket, but then shakes his head.

  
“No prize. Come on, let‟s find the others, I want to get a photo of everyone.”

  
Harry texts Niall and Louis texts Zayn, and five minutes later they‟re assembled in front of the Ferris wheel. It‟s lit up now, lights blinking against the darkening evening sky. Louis remembers how shoddy it looked a few hours ago and wonders when exactly it started to seem appealing. He turns to Zayn to remark on it, but is distracted by the morose expression on his face.

  
“Christ, what farted in your cotton candy?” he asks, poking Zayn in the stomach.

  
Zayn sighs. “Nothing, it‟s just—I checked this whole place over and everything‟s up to code. These guys, they really know their stuff.” He glowers up at the Ferris wheel. “Not even a fucking rusty bolt, much less a fire hazard.”

  
“Sorry, mate,” Harry says, “On the bright side, Louis is absolute rubbish at fair games.”

  
Louis nods. “I truly am.”

  
He swears he can see Zayn‟s quiff perk up. “Really?”

  
“It‟s an embarrassment to the human race,” he admits.

  
“That does cheer me up,” Zayn says. Harry claps him on the shoulder.

  
“Good, can‟t have you crying in the pictures.” Niall says. Harry flags down a passing student and hands her his camera. The four of them line up, Zayn next to Louis next to Harry next to Niall, arms around each others‟ shoulders, though one of Louis‟ is occupied by the bear.

  
“Three, two, one…” the girl says, and as the flash goes off, Louis hoists the bear up in front of his face.

  
Harry cuffs the back of his head. “Tosser,” he says affectionately, and goes to retrieve his camera, thanking the girl. He looks at the digital display and laughs. “Oh, this one‟s going on the wall.” When the other three try to sneak a look at the screen he hides it, batting them away. “You‟ll see it when I give you prints, get off.”  
  
Niall stretches and lets out a small burp. “All right, lads, I‟m headed home.” He goes down the line and pats all of them on the head, even the bear. “I am going to sleep for a very long time, and it‟s going to be fucking amazing. See you on Monday!” He waves and walks toward the carpark as the others chorus their goodbyes after him.

  
“I think that‟s it for me, too,” Zayn says, shuffling his feet.

  
“Aw, Zayn,” Harry wheedles. “I‟ll let you beat me at the test-your-strength thing if you stay.”

  
“Appreciate the offer, but nah.” Zayn pulls a packet of cigarettes out of his jacket and puts one between his lips. “I‟ve had enough excitement for one night, I think.” He lights up and takes a weary drag that Louis knows for a fact he‟s practiced in front of a mirror.

  
“If you say so,” Louis says. “Just know that if you burn your flat down in a melancholic fury I‟m not letting you sleep on my couch.”

  
“Cheers,” Zayn says, and heads off.

  
They watch him slouch off. “A hundred people queued up to kiss him today and he‟s still miserable,” Louis says. “Not sure if I should be annoyed or impressed.”

  
“Nah, I get it. Doesn‟t really count unless it‟s the right one.” Harry says, a smile at the corner of his lips. “You ready to spend your last ticket?”

  
“I was born ready, Harold,” Louis says, bumping Harry‟s shoulder with his. “What‟s the plan?”

  
Harry just points up at the Ferris wheel, and Louis‟ stomach twists like a balloon animal. “Seems like a fitting end to the night, yeah?” Louis just nods.

The queue moves quickly enough that he doesn‟t have time to try to remember the last time he was actually excited to ride a Ferris wheel. When they reach the ticket-taker, she stops them. “It‟s three to a car.”

  
Harry grabs the bear from Louis‟ arms. “He‟s our third.” He hands the girl two tickets from his tape and walks briskly by, holding Louis‟ arm, and Louis has just enough time to hand her his last ticket before he‟s dragged past and into a car. Harry puts the bear in the far seat and claims the middle for himself, leaving Louis the seat on the end.

  
“Cozy,” Louis jokes, settling himself in, and the ride operator locks the bar over their laps.

  
The wheel starts turning, lifting them up, and Louis is once again thrown into a moment of extreme, acute awareness. This time, though, he‟s not worried about what any else thinks. Every part of him focuses instead on this narrow bench on a Ferris wheel and Harry‟s solid weight pressed up against his side and the fact that there‟s nowhere for him to run, not even a spare inch of space between his body and the side of the car. Just himself and Harry and a giant bear and all of the things he‟s afraid he can‟t keep quiet.

  
“You‟re not afraid of heights or anything, right?” Louis looks over to find Harry looking back at him with concern, and he‟s confused until he realises his hands are clenched in his lap, knuckles white.

  
He forces himself to relax. “No worries,” he says brightly, and the slow spread of Harry‟s smile has him in pieces. He‟s not afraid of heights, but he‟s been in too many shows not to know nerves when he has them.

  
They sit quietly, looking out at the view as their car climbs higher and higher and the sounds and colors of the fair grow fainter below. Louis places his hands on his knees and keeps them still, eyes fixed on the loose way Harry‟s hands hang over the bar spanning their laps. They‟re so close, and it would be so easy to just reach out and tangle their fingers together. He can imagine Harry‟s palm broad and warm against his, his fingers sugar-sticky on the back of his hand, and, God, when was the last time he wanted to hold somebody‟s hand? Suspended in this tiny, contained space, he can‟t keep ignoring what he‟s been feeling all night. Louis is sitting on a carnival ride with a boy who makes him nervous, and he has not felt like this since he was seventeen.

  
When they reach the top, the wheel creaks to a halt, and they‟re alone with the stars and the lights of Manchester. Louis looks out to the city skyline and soaks in the warmth of the person next to him and thinks of how strange it feels to not want to be anywhere else, or with anyone else. He doesn‟t know how to handle it. Maybe he used to, but he doesn‟t anymore.

  
He clears his throat loudly, and Harry looks over at him. “Penny for your thoughts?”

  
“Why?” Harry asks, as if Louis has an answer for why anything anymore, especially with him.

  
“Bit boring, sitting here in silence,” Louis says, trying to keep his tone light. He should have known better than to trust his voice, as weak and wavering as the rest of him.

  
Harry just shakes his head softly, eye contact like a tether. “I‟m not bored,” he says, and looks back out across the city, a smile playing across his lips. “You aren‟t bored.”

  
Louis stares at a point on the horizon and tries to ignore the uneven drag of his own lungs. “I suppose not.”

  
He braves another look at Harry, and it almost knocks the breath out of him. He‟s in profile next to Louis, looking out into the distance, immediate and warm and so fucking beautiful. The lights from the Ferris wheel hit him just right, touching the ends of his lashes and the dip of his lower lip and the place where his hair falls across his temple and curls against his cheekbone, casting a halo around his curls in bright pink and yellow. Louis wants to kiss him more than he‟s ever wanted to kiss anyone in his life.  
  
The ride shudders back into motion and Louis pulls his eyes away. They don‟t speak for the rest of the ride. Every nerve ending in Louis‟ body is right up against the surface, spine to fingertips, straining to the very borders of him in an attempt to get to Harry. It feels like the last moment before a static shock, before the bolt arches across a gap, and Louis can‟t let that happen. So he keeps his hands on his knees.

  
By the time Louis gets out of the car his legs are weak like he‟s run a marathon. Harry climbs out after him, tugging the bear along by the arm, and Louis can‟t help but grin at the sight of him.

  
“Sadly, I‟m afraid that‟s the end of the night for me,” Louis says, making a try for casual now that the ground‟s back under his feet.

  
“All good things,” Harry says. He heaves the bear back up into his arms, and they start wandering in the direction of the parking area.

  
Louis stares at his shoes and matches Harry‟s slow pace, pretending for the sake of his own sanity that this was just a fun night with a good friend and nothing more, that he doesn‟t want anything else. And it was fun, really. Harry had been right.

  
“This was nice,” Louis says suddenly. He doesn‟t remember making the decision to speak, but it‟s too late to go back now. “I‟m, um. I‟m glad I came.” He elbows Harry, knocking him sideways a bit. “Even if it was only because you forced me to.”

  
Harry laughs and gives him a light shove back. “You‟re welcome. For the bear, too.”

  
He holds it out to Louis, shaking it a little so the stuffed legs flop around, and Louis takes it from him haughtily. “No more than I deserve.”

  
Harry laughs again. “Too right.”  
  
They walk in silence for another moment before Harry looks over and says, “I‟m glad I met you.”

  
It hangs in the air between them, and Louis wants to grab onto that too, wants to shove it inside his coat and keep it there. One day he will stop being surprised by the things Harry is willing to say out loud.

  
“Yeah?” he says.

  
“Yeah,” Harry confirms, looking pleased with himself.

  
Louis can‟t do anything about the smile that creeps across his face as they keep walking. “Good.” He notices then that they‟re reaching the edge of the car park, and he pauses. “Where‟d you park, Hazza?”

  
Harry stops in his tracks. “Back there,” he says, gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb. “I was following you.”

  
Louis lets out a weak little laugh. “I‟m that way.” He points in another direction. “Thought I was following you.”

  
“Oh,” Harry says, laughing a little too, one hand reaching up to rub at the back of his neck. “I guess this is where we part ways, then.” He kicks at the gravel on the ground.  
“Well, I‟ll, uh—” Louis searches for words that aren‟t going to give him away. “I‟ll see you on Monday, I suppose.”

  
Harry nods. “Yeah, Monday.” He‟s looking at Louis with his brow furrowed, like he‟s trying to sort something out in his own head.

  
“Well,” Louis says. “Bye.”

“Bye,” Harry says back, but doesn‟t move, still watching Louis.

  
The lights of the car park cast long shadows on Harry‟s face, and from this close Louis can count every one. He thinks of autumn and home and being seventeen and believing in things that he hardly even mentions by name in his own head anymore. He thinks of colored lights and Harry‟s hands, and he feels like he‟s back up on the Ferris wheel alone, something tiny hanging over something so much bigger than himself. There‟s an edge, and there‟s him, and he can‟t seem to stop himself from moving closer and closer. He takes a deep breath, opens his mouth, closes it again, and then turns on his heel and walks away.

  
He hurries to his car, afraid to look back, and the gravel crunches idiot idiot idiot underfoot.


	4. Four

-Z-

Zayn has this sort of image in his head of how it should happen when he and Liam finally get together.

  
It‟s a fantasy, mostly, but when the man of your dreams is a fireman, it‟s hard to not get carried away. He usually imagines some emergency, some climactic moment where his life is in danger, and then Liam swoops in, propelled by his confusing fascination with Zayn‟s sex appeal and intelligence and brooding nature, and rescues him from certain death. Driven mad by fear for Zayn, Liam has no choice but to confess his undying love, perhaps even while his skin is still sooty from the flames. Also he is shirtless.

  
Naturally, this scenario could play out in a variety of settings: his flat, the school, a beautiful villa in the south of France. Zayn has a contingency plan for each one. So when the fire alarm goes off unexpectedly during second period, he‟s ready. This is the day Zayn has trained for. His day of days. The day someone pulled the fire alarm.

  
He‟s in the middle of a spirited discussion of literary devices in Wuthering Heights when it happens. He leaps out of his chair, snatching up his jacket and checking his hair frantically in the mirror he keeps in his desk drawer before rounding up his students and leading them outside. It‟s been storming all morning—the perfect weather for a dramatic confession of love, if you ask Zayn—so they all end up huddled under an awning, waiting for the fire department to arrive.  
  
But the firefighters come streaming out of the truck and Zayn stands there in the car park with his two dozen bedraggled teenagers and Liam never comes. Attractive men pile out of the firetruck whose sirens were supposed to sing the song of Zayn‟s destiny, and not one of them is Liam.

  
One of his students tugs on his sleeve. “Mr. Malik? I think we‟re allowed back inside now.”

  
“Go back in if you like,” he says, staring angrily at the firetruck. “It doesn‟t matter. None of it matters.” He turns to look at the girl. “Hope is a lie.” She stares back, and whatever she sees in his eyes makes her quail and turn back around, shepherding the rest of the students back inside.

  
Eventually he joins them, and no one mentions his absence as they continue their discussion of Cathy and Heathcliff. Zayn could use a wuthering moor of his own right now. This is the worst day of his life, and he doesn‟t quite know how to express it without period costuming and scenery.

  
The rest of the day passes in a haze of having to talk to people who aren‟t Liam, and soon enough Zayn finds himself at home, contemplating another dinner for one in front of the television. Or he would be, if there were food in his flat. His cupboards are as empty as his soul.

  
And so he‟s at Tesco now, trudging up and down the frozen food aisle. If there‟s a modern equivalent to wandering a moor in an open waistcoat, this is it.

  
There‟s a sale on frozen peas, apparently. That‟s what Zayn deserves to eat: discount frozen peas. Zayn is the discount frozen peas of humanity. He reaches for a bag, but his hand bumps into someone else‟s first. He‟d been so engrossed in his own ennui that he hadn‟t even realised someone else was in the aisle.  
  
“Sorry,” Zayn mumbles, withdrawing his hand just as the other person does the same, and then his eyes flick upward and his mind goes completely and utterly blank.

  
Liam. Right in front of him. In the frozen foods aisle. He‟s wearing a plaid shirt and he‟s got a basket full of shopping in one hand and Zayn is going into cardiac arrest right there next to the peas.

  
“Zayn!” Liam says, smiling at him as if every day is the best day of his life. Zayn wants to kiss him on the mouth. “How‟ve you been, mate?”

  
“Yes,” Zayn says automatically, because the ability to comprehend human speech has apparently been shocked out of him in the last five seconds. “I mean, fine. Shopping. And, such. You know.” He holds up his bag of vegetables helplessly. “Lettuce.”

  
He is identifying vegetables. Things are bleak.

  
“Good, good,” Liam says, still smiling. “Heard you lot had a bit of a scare today, didn‟t you?”

  
For a moment, Zayn honestly hasn‟t the faintest clue what in God‟s name Liam is talking about, but then it clicks. Right. The fire alarm. That thing he was upset about all day.  
“Oh, yeah, somebody pulled the alarm,” Zayn manages. “It was all right, though. No blazing infernos to report.”

  
He doesn‟t know what‟s coming out of his mouth, but it makes Liam laugh, so he considers it a small victory.

  
“Too bad I had the morning off, we might‟ve seen each other,” Liam says. “Spent half the day on the sofa eating biscuits instead. That‟s why I‟m here, actually. Restocking the cupboard. Funny how that worked out, isn‟t it?”  
  
Destiny, Zayn wants to scream in his face. “Funny, yeah.”

  
“Eating alone, then?” Liam says.

  
Yes, so alone, oh God, couldn‟t be more alone if I tried, he thinks, but he can‟t say that. He‟s already standing in the freezer section in his sadness hoodie. He doesn‟t need to give Liam any more evidence that he doesn‟t actually have a life.

  
“No,” he lies.

  
“Right,” Liam says, shaking his head. “I‟m sure you‟ve got plans.”

  
“No,” Zayn says quickly, panicking, “I haven‟t got plans with anybody.”

  
Liam stares at him for a moment, furrowing his brow, and Zayn wonders how hard he‟d have to smash his own head into the freezer door to cause instant death.

  
The universe must have other plans for his demise, though, because Liam just claps him on the shoulder. “That‟s really profound, mate. Not having plans doesn‟t mean you‟re alone. No man is an island, I get it.” He nods to himself, looking moved. “Well, I should probably get a move on. Sounds like the rain‟s stopped for a while, might be able to get out of here before it comes back.”

  
“Right,” Zayn says, nodding too hard. “Yeah.”

  
“Good to see you, Zayn,” Liam says with a smile, and then he turns and heads off down the aisle.

  
“Wait, Liam,” Zayn blurts out at his retreating back.

Liam pauses, turning around to look at Zayn. “Yeah?”

  
“I, um,” Zayn starts. What the fuck was he going to say? Think of something, Malik, think. “I‟ve been worrying about my building lately. Um, where I live. Not sure everything‟s, you know, up to code and all that.” It‟s the best he can do when he‟s looking Liam in the face. Maybe he‟ll come by later and check things out and then when he sees Zayn leaning casually against his door he‟ll suddenly be struck by the realisation that his soulmate has been standing right in front of him all along and then they‟ll kiss and Zayn will throw a parade.

  
Liam frowns, and Zayn almost feels bad about lying to him. “That‟s no good. Tell you what,” he says, coming back down the aisle. “Why don‟t I give you my number, and you can keep an eye out and ring me if you notice anything.”

  
It takes a moment for anything to penetrate the five million exclamation points that just sprang up inside his head.

  
“Okay, yeah,” Zayn says when he finally regains control of his body, scrambling to pull his phone out of his pocket. “Sounds brilliant.” Liam is going to give him his number. It‟s work-related, and technically under false pretenses, but still Liam is giving him his number. He will have a direct line to Liam at all times. They‟re basically married.

  
After Liam reads off his number, Zayn double- and triple-checks that he‟s got it right before saving it to his phone. “If you spot anything fishy, let me know and I‟ll see if I can‟t sort it out,” Liam says earnestly. If Zayn is discount frozen peas, Liam is premium filet mignon in human form. Just, you know. Less French.

  
“I will.” Zayn nods eagerly. “I will absolutely ring you.” And then he will put a ring on it.

  
Liam‟s face crinkles up into a smile. Zayn wants to build a shrine to it. “Wonderful. Anyway, I‟ve got to run. Enjoy your dinner.” He gives Zayn a tiny wave. Zayn starts to return it before realising he probably looks ridiculous, so he does his best to make it look like he meant to run his hand through his hair.

  
“Yeah, cheers. You too. Man.” He aims for nonchalance but he thinks he may have missed the mark. Liam just keeps smiling, though, and disappears around the corner. Zayn manages to keep it together for a full ten seconds before he collapses against the freezer door. He is never doubting destiny again, so long as he lives.

  
This vow lasts until he‟s paying the cashier, when he realises that he didn‟t give Liam his number in return and drops his change all over the floor. Oh, bugger destiny with a rake.

.........

-L-

Louis really does like his job, but he doesn‟t like every second of it. Especially not right now, hunched over his desk after hours, looking over the first drafts of his students‟ final compositions for the term. He could be at home right now, getting cozy with The Only Way is Essex, but there are only a few weeks left before Christmas hols and his kids are going to need all the help they can get.

  
Louis sighs and circles a line on the pages in front of him in pen. This character entered stage left two pages ago, he writes in the margins, so while having him enter again stage right here without having mentioned him ever leaving is a fascinating choice, you should probably change it unless you plan on introducing evil twins as a plot point. He taps the end of the pen against his teeth thoughtfully. Too harsh… or not harsh enough?

  
As he bends the pen to paper again, Harry opens the door. He doesn‟t say hello, just tosses a mesh bag of footballs to one side and stalks to the desk nearest Louis‟. He sits down heavily, not looking at Louis, then stands up after a moment to walk back to the door and close it. He returns to his seat and scrubs a hand over his face before finally meeting Louis‟ eyes.  
  
Louis considers telling him he‟s sitting at the desk where Jeremy Givens sticks all his gum, but decides that this isn‟t the time. “Hi. Talk to me. Are you all right?”

  
Harry‟s leg is bouncing up and down, as if he can‟t quite accept stillness. “No,” he says, not looking away from Louis. “I mean, yes, I‟m fine, and that‟s what—Jesus. I‟m angry.”

He looks quickly out the window with what‟s almost a smile, but by the time he meets Louis‟ eyes again it‟s a grimace. “You can keep something—you can respect student confidentiality, yeah?”

  
“Yeah, of course, what—” Louis starts, but Harry‟s already pushed out of his seat and pacing in front of Louis‟ desk.

  
“You know Richards? Tom Richards? Tallish, spiky hair, one of my strikers?” Louis nods. “I asked him to stay behind after practice because he seemed off his game. He wasn‟t passing to the other forward we had playing, Mike Kendall, wasn‟t linking up properly with him at all, and those two can practically read each others‟ minds normally.” He pulls that almost-smile again, and Louis hates that look already. “I was actually worried about him. I thought, I don‟t know, I thought maybe something was wrong at home.”

  
Harry still hasn‟t stopped moving. “And so I ask him, after practice, it‟s just us, I ask him what‟s going on, and you know what he tells me?” He pauses and meets Louis‟ eyes.

“He says that he and Kendall aren‟t speaking, aren‟t friends anymore, because apparently Kendall told Richards that he‟s gay, not that Richards put it in those terms.” The pacing resumes. “He tells me—this boy on my team, who‟s been playing with all these guys for months—that he doesn‟t want to play with Kendall anymore, that he‟s already told the other lads.” His hand on the back of his neck, he falls heavily back into his seat. “Christ, Louis, I‟ve never wanted to hit a student before, but I nearly lost it.”

  
Louis forces his fingers to unbend from the fist they‟ve formed, from around the script page he‟s crumpled into a ball. “What—” he clears his throat, “what did you do?”  
  
“I told him that under the circumstances, I didn‟t want him playing with Kendall either, or on any team of mine, and that he was benched until further notice,” Harry says, drumming his fingers on the desk. His eyes are ablaze, and Louis can‟t decide if he should be more frightened for or of him.

  
“Jesus, Haz.”

  
“I know, Lou, I know but—fuck, I don‟t care, he betrayed the team and the trust of a teammate and, Jesus, I feel like he betrayed me because I liked this kid,” he says all in rush, leaning forward and putting his head in his hands. “And, fuck, Louis, tomorrow I‟m going to have to tell Kendall that the team knows, that I know, when I have no fucking business knowing, and I‟m not…” he takes a few deep breaths and shakes his head, “I‟m not doing that and making him play with the prick who did it to him, too. No. Fuck that. I don‟t care.”

  
Louis looks at the line of Harry‟s shoulders, strung tight as a bowstring. He‟s almost afraid to move, unable to cope with everything radiating off of the man in front of him. “He‟s lucky that it‟s someone like you who‟s dealing with it,” he manages, but his words feel pale and useless compared to the pure energy vibrating out of Harry.

  
Harry lets out a harsh laugh. “He‟s not lucky. There‟s nothing about this that‟s lucky. If there‟s—Jesus, if anyone‟s lucky it‟s me, Lou.” He looks up, and Louis can see the redness of his eyes, the wetness of his lashes. He looks like a Rembrandt, like an oil painting of firelight. “I hate that. I hate that the fact that I made it out of school without any of this bullshit makes me lucky. I hate being thankful for getting something that, that Kendall and everyone else shouldn‟t even have to think about asking for. They should just get it.”

  
If Louis was afraid to move before, he can barely breathe now. The air seems stretched thin, a rubber band about to snap.

  
Harry swallows thickly. “My friends didn‟t care, and my parents were great, and it‟s not like there were any other guys who liked guys at my high school, so I just ended up dating girls anyway. And it was fine. And nobody cared. And fuck, Louis, I thought that meant that things were changing, that things were better, but they aren‟t, I just got fucking lucky.” He wipes a hand over his face. “I just feel… I feel really stupid, and I can‟t do anything about it.”

  
The room is silent except for Harry‟s heavy breaths and the sound of Louis‟ brain shorting out. “Hazza,” Louis says. “Haz.” Harry won‟t look at him. Fuck it. Louis can deal with processing this information later.

  
He stands and comes around the desk, drops into a seat next to Harry. “Harry, Christ, you‟re already doing something.” He almost doesn‟t hesitate before sliding his hand behind Harry‟s neck. “You can let that shithead rot on the bench for the rest of the season, first off.” That gets a slightly watery smile out of Harry, and part of Louis‟ brain does backflips. “And you can be there for Kendall. You can have his back. That‟s—” after all Harry‟s said, he feels guilty for even taking a breath, “that‟s more than anyone ever did for me, all right?” Harry‟s eyes flick up to his. “So don‟t think it‟s nothing.”

  
“Maybe it isn‟t nothing, but God,” Harry sighs. “I‟m still an idiot. You know, I never said anything to you guys about being, I don‟t know, not straight, because I honestly thought it didn‟t matter. Jesus, Lou, I don‟t even have a word for it. I thought it didn‟t make a difference, because I thought everyone was moving on from that stuff.”

  
“It doesn‟t have to make a difference,” Louis says carefully. If that‟s what Harry wants, he can pretend not to care about this. He can pretend that this doesn‟t tip his world sideways, that it hasn‟t already. He can lock this away if he has to, if it takes this look off Harry‟s face.

  
“I wish you were right, Lou, and maybe yesterday I would have thought you were.” He runs a hand through his hair. “But if this is how it is, if my students are going after each other for being something that I am? It matters, whether I want it to or not. And just because I‟ve been able to pretend it doesn‟t affect me doesn‟t mean I get to ignore reality.”  
  
Louis rubs the back of Harry‟s neck gently. “Okay. I see what you‟re saying. It matters.” Harry lets out a heavy breath. “But I think the fact that you figured that out means you can‟t be all that stupid.”

  
Harry takes a few deep breaths. “God, Lou,” he says, “everyone in the world is an arsehole except you,” and maybe it‟s the weight of everything that‟s been said, but they both dissolve into giggles.

  
“Glad to see you‟re catching on,” Louis says. The part of him that‟s relieved to see Harry looking less likely to fly into a million pieces is just about loud enough to drown out the part of him that‟s still freaking the fuck out.

  
“Okay,” Harry says. “Okay. I can still—I‟m going to help him, and do everything I can, and if it‟s too much or if I fuck up I can always come cry at you about it. A good plan.” He sits up a little straighter in his seat and seems to have shaken off the worst of what‟s weighing him down. He even fixes his hair quickly, so Louis knows he can‟t be doing that badly. “All right, I think I‟m ready to face the world again.” He looks up at Louis and smiles. “I‟d thank you for listening, but I know you‟d just tell me that I can always talk to you,” he says, cutting off Louis‟ protests, “So I‟ll skip ahead in the conversation and thank you for that, instead.”

  
Louis opens and closes his mouth. His brain is full of fog, and the only coherent thought that is breaking through is sheer amazement that this is a person who exists. Maybe it‟s causing Harry pain now, but Louis sends out mental thanks to whatever power allowed him to pass through adolescence without being ruined by reality. He feels like he gets to hang out with a unicorn.

  
He doesn‟t realise he‟s been staring until Harry clears his throat. Right, conversation. Louis has partaken once or twice. “Fair enough,” he says. “You‟re welcome.” Harry squeezes his shoulder, and Louis is conscious of every square inch of contact. Because he is a bad person.  
  
“I suppose I‟ll leave you to your actual work,” Harry says, leaving his seat. He walks over and picks up the bag of footballs.

  
“Do you have to?” Louis sighs. “Couldn‟t you have another crisis? They‟re much less boring.” Harry grins at him, and Louis is glad to see his face wiped clean of the pain it had carried before.

  
“I might be able to come up with something else equally traumatic by lunch tomorrow,” Harry says, hefting the mesh bag over his shoulder.

  
“See that you do,” Louis says, looking over the top of his glasses. Harry laughs as he leaves, the door closing behind him with a snick.

  
Louis waits until he‟s sure Harry‟s a suitable distance away, and then lets out a strangled scream into his empty classroom.

........

  
Louis' windscreen has a crack in it. He was driving through a construction zone once when some piece of machinery sent a pebble flying into the glass, and the impact instantly split a crack from one corner to the other, spiderwebbing out at the ends. It's always there now, since Louis can't really bring himself to spend the money to fix it, and every time he drives anywhere he's half-waiting for the windscreen to finally shatter.

  
Louis sits at a stoplight and stares at the crack his windscreen and all he can think about is Harry.

  
It‟s been a week since the whole episode with Mike Kendall, and maybe if Louis were a better, less sexually frustrated person it would be a week since Harry came to him in a moment of emotional distress, but instead it‟s a week since Harry told him he likes men.  
  
Suddenly all of Louis‟ fantasies have become much less abstract and much more immediate. The question is no longer whether or not Harry is interested in men; it‟s whether Harry‟s interested in Louis, which is a much less comfortable thing to have on his mind. Flirting doesn‟t feel playful anymore. Whatever they‟ve got their trigger fingers on, it isn‟t loaded with blanks.

  
It‟s not just that Louis knows, now. It‟s that Harry knows that he knows. They‟re both aware that something could happen, that the only thing stopping it is the two of them. It‟s a precarious balance, and Louis can never tell anymore where the line between friendly and flirting falls, or if it was ever there, or what anything fucking means. He‟s left constantly on edge, wondering if this is the moment, or this, or this, Harry leaning too close to steal a sip of his tea, hair brushing the side of his neck, Harry smiling when he catches Louis staring at his hands, Harry‟s hands lingering every time they touch, staying a beat too long on Louis‟ wrist or waist or shoulder. Has he always done that? Is Louis reading into things too much? He‟s crawling out of his skin, just wondering if the glass will give.

  
Louis is a lot of things, but he‟s never been one to let things lie. He‟s not one to sit down and talk about things, either, and that leaves him with physical communication, which is the only thing he really knows how to do anyway. He starts choosing the tightest shirts in his closet, pulling his braces down and letting them hang loose sometimes when Harry‟s around. The first time he does it, he means to catalogue Harry‟s reaction, but then he gets distracted by the way Harry‟s shirt rides up when he stretches and he misses the moment entirely. Harry‟s eyes still track him around the room, but no more than usual. Louis doesn‟t know what to make of that; he has no idea what their “usual” is or ever was. Eventually he realises that no matter what Harry does, he‟ll twist himself into knots over it.

  
It‟s starting to get to him in ways that he really shouldn‟t let it. Combined with the stress of classes and trying to put on a damn Shakespeare, it‟s making him irritable and short with everyone, even people who are just trying to help him. When his mum calls and asks about his love life in that sly, knowing Mum way of hers, he snaps at her and then feels guilty about it for the rest of the week. When the feedback from the microphones almost leaves them all deaf during a technical rehearsal, he feels like he‟s going to pull his hair out.

  
“Oh, for God‟s sake, Niall!” he shouts up at the sound booth in the back of the theatre.

  
“Working on it!” Niall throws back, and when did Louis start taking this out on Niall of all people? Niall never did anything to anyone.

  
“Someone needs to get laid,” Zayn says, sidling up next to him with a bucket of paint.

  
“That‟s rich coming from you,” Louis says.

  
He spends that night slouched on his sofa, watching old episodes of Cake Boss off his external hard drive and trying not to lament the passage of his youth. He feels restless, like there‟s an itch he can‟t quite scratch. He watches the man onscreen sculpt impossible shapes out of what is supposedly food, and thinks of Harry. Well, he‟s almost always thinking of Harry these days, but he‟s specifically thinking about his stories of working in a bakery as a teenager, burning bread and stealing cookie dough. He‟s definitely not thinking about present-day Harry wearing nothing but an apron, or covered in chocolate frosting, sweet and sticky under Louis‟ tongue. Nope. Not at all.

  
He pulls out his phone and stares at the lock screen, considering. They‟ve always texted each other at random times of the day, little jokes or comments or general miscellany, but Louis could swear even that has changed. It‟s not just Harry sending a message from class about the person in the next row who looks like Robbie Williams or Louis texting him when one of his students turns in a four-page essay on the sexual implications of Jack and Algernon‟s conversation about muffins in The Importance of Being Earnest. Now it‟s late nights with Duchess looking annoyed from the foot of the bed as his phone lights up the room, words on his screen just skirting the edges of what he‟d really like to say.  
  
Still watching the sugary roses bloom, he pulls up Harry‟s number, just below Zayn‟s now on his favorites list.

  
_is fondant actually magic? because i do not understand_

  
Not his best work, but enough to get a conversation going. A few minutes later, he‟s rewarded with a response.

  
_you should know a baker never reveals his secrets, tommo ;)_

  
Louis snickers and replies immediately. As he does, thoughts of the secrets Harry has revealed to him steal unbidden to the back of his mind.

  
_ur not a baker, ur a mildly competent footy coach. do those reveal their secrets?_

  
The response is almost instantaneous.

  
_more than mildly competent >:(_

  
The image of Harry frowning at his phone is too good, and Louis can‟t help but try to rile him up more. Louis likes taking it a little too far with him, pestering him until he‟s not quite sure what Harry will do next.

  
_pls. could kick ur arse myself._

  
For what it‟s worth, he actually was pretty decent at football back in the day. Harry seems eager to put him in his place, though, and Louis squirms in his seat when the next text arrives.

  
_you want to prove that? put your money where your mouth is?_

  
Oh, dear. The last thing he needs is to imagine Harry lounging around his flat, in whatever state of undress he almost certainly is in, thinking about Louis and mouths in any capacity whatsoever. He knows none of the actual words in the message are anywhere near R-rated, but his toes still curl. He takes a deep breath and waits a few minutes before responding, staring blindly at Cake Boss and trying to talk himself down. It doesn‟t work.

  
_i‟ll do anything i like with my money, styles. and my mouth. u scared?_

  
He knows he should be embarrassed, should stop trying to escalate something that he can‟t control, but all he can think about is whether or not Harry will catch his breath when he reads what Louis sent. After ten minutes have passed without a response, though, he‟s less excited and more annoyed.

  
_shaking in my boots. speaking of, do you actually own trainers? :)_

  
Louis can just see his smug face, looking pleased with himself as he comes up with trash talk. Maybe it‟s a little bit attractive, but that doesn‟t mean he‟s going to stand for it. A full fifteen minutes pass before he sends his response, giving Harry a taste of his own medicine. He means to make it twenty, but he breaks before he can get there.

  
_dick. let‟s do it, then. u and me, footy deathmatch, best man wins._

  
He expects another long wait, but this time his phone buzzes less than five minutes later. When Louis reads what Harry‟s sent, he throws his phone down the couch and grabs a throw pillow, burying his face in it.

  
_your arse is mine, tomlinson._

  
It takes active effort to keep from pressing his hand against the semi he‟s currently sporting. Images swim unasked for before his eyes. Harry in a football kit, covered in dirt and sweat. Harry pushing him up against a wall in the boy‟s changing room. Harry taking whatever he wants. Louis gropes down the couch and retrieves his phone, peeking out from behind the pillow to tap out as innocuous a response as he can manage.

  
_yeah right. u talk big, but we‟ll see. when r we doing this?_

  
If the last message came in minutes, this one comes in seconds, and the idea of Harry staring impatiently at his phone has Louis biting down hard on the pillow.

  
_now. come pick me up._

  
And oh, that sends heat buzzing through Louis‟ brain. Harry doesn‟t get pushy often, but Louis knows how it looks, all fiery eyes and curled lips. Louis has gotten him like that with a few texts, and he‟d be proud of himself if he weren‟t in such a fucking state.

  
_hazza it‟s almost midnight_

  
The problem isn‟t really that it‟s late. The problem is that Louis isn‟t sure he can deal with being around Harry in person right now if a series of texts about football have him seriously considering turning off Cake Boss to have a wank.

  
_backing out now? knew you couldn‟t handle me_

  
That does absolutely nothing to help.

  
_wanker. pick you up in twenty_

  
Louis‟ thumb hovers over the send button for a few seconds before he finally shuts his eyes and presses it. This is not a good idea. He knows that. But he can‟t back down, not now.

The drive to Harry‟s only takes ten minutes, but Louis needs ten extra to change into sport-appropriate clothing and think about dead animals until his hard-on calms down.

He maintains an even and sedate pace all the way to Harry‟s block of flats. He will not speed. Maybe the prospect of spending time with Harry can get him to agree to sports at an unreasonable hour of the night, and maybe a few innocent texts can get him hard, but he will not hurry. Louis has some dignity.

  
When he pulls up, Harry is already outside on the pavement, dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, beanie pulled low over his ears. He‟s carrying a duffle bag, which he slings over his shoulder into the backseat as he slides into the passenger side. Louis is watching everything, the way his shorts sit low on his hips, the way his body twists when he turns back around.

  
“Hi,” Harry says, reaching to buckle his seatbelt. He grins at Louis, his cheeks red from the nighttime chill, and Louis tries so hard to keep himself under control.

  
“Hi yourself,” Louis says, dragging his eyes away from the curls escaping from under Harry‟s hat. “Ready to be beaten at your own game, literally?”

  
“Stop stalling and drive, Tomlinson,” Harry says. Louis doesn‟t need to be told twice.

  
He peels away from the pavement just a little too fast, and it‟s a quick ride to the school with the two of them trash-talking back and forth and the tension crackling in between. They‟re laughing by the time the two of them pile out of Louis‟ car, but it still doesn‟t feel like there‟s enough air to fill Louis‟ lungs on the walk across the carpark, in and out of the puddles of light formed by the streetlamps. Soon they fall into silence, their breath making twin clouds in the crisp air, shoulders brushing with every step.  
  
They reach the chain link fence that surrounds the pitch, and Harry reaches into his duffle, pulling out the keys to the gate. The lock opens with a clunk, impossibly loud, and Louis coughs out a nervous laugh.

  
Harry turns around at the sound, smirking. “Don‟t worry, there‟s no one else around.”

  
Louis knows this, knows that even if there is, Harry‟s technically allowed to be here whenever he wants, but it still feels dangerous. Everything feels sort of dangerous lately. Harry opens the gate and motions for Louis to walk through, then ducks under the stands to unlock the hidden breaker box and flip on the lights. The pitch floods with light in front of them, bright green and wide open under the night sky and no place at all to hide.

  
Louis squints at Harry, walking backwards onto the pitch and feeling words churning up like they always do when he‟s nervous. “Worried? Who‟s worried? The only one who should be worried is you, Styles, because you‟re about to suffer a humiliating defeat at the hands of the Tommo.” He pauses and thinks through that sentence again. “Or the feet of the Tommo. Whatever would be more humiliating.”

  
Harry just laughs and pulls the football out of the duffle. He tosses it into the air and starts bouncing it off his knees, higher and higher each time, following the ball with his eyes. His concentration makes the lines of him long and steady, and the column of his throat is pale and perfect under the pitch‟s fluorescent lights.

  
Louis swallows. He is perhaps in over his head.

  
Suddenly Harry kicks the ball, catching it mid-air and sending it soaring past Louis. He takes off at a run, blowing by Louis before he‟s even registered what‟s happening. Louis curses under his breath and goes tearing after him, pleased when he closes the gap quickly.

  
“Too slow, Harold,” he says, coming in from the side with a slide tackle that knocks the ball from Harry‟s feet.  
  
He scrambles upright and starts running the other way down the pitch as fast as he can, the ball dancing ahead of him. He hears the pounding of Harry‟s feet behind him a moment too late, unable to stop Harry from colliding with him roughly and stealing the ball away.

  
Harry comes to a stop a few paces from Louis, breathing heavily through his grin. “Just lulling you into a false sense of security, Lou,” he says, his left foot resting on the football.

  
Louis may be a bit winded, but he‟s aware enough to see the fierce joy in Harry‟s eyes, the predatory set of his shoulders. His cheeks and lips are bright pink, either from the cold or from exertion, and Louis can see the fluid way his muscles move under his shirt when he shifts his weight for another attack. Competition looks good on him.

  
Keeping eye contact, Harry feints right, then left, and Louis banks hard and follows him each time. Finally Harry slips past him with a spin move, his shoulder sliding across Louis‟ with a force that feels intentional. Louis isn‟t far behind him, and this time he grabs Harry‟s shirt, slows him down so he can steal the ball back. Harry isn‟t easily outdone, though, and they spend what could be minutes or years upping the ante, swearing and laughing and using dirtier and dirtier tactics to regain possession as they sprint up and down the pitch.

  
Louis realises somewhere along the line that they never established how exactly one wins whatever game they‟re playing, but then Harry makes a break down the pitch and Louis is too busy chasing him to care.

  
One of them—Louis couldn‟t say who—finally goes too far, underestimates his own strength, and the two of them go down in a tangle of limbs at midfield, the ball rolling away slowly before coming to a stop. Louis lunges after it, but Harry is too quick, throwing his body across Louis‟ to hold him back.

  
His hands find Louis‟ wrists, holding him down, and Louis has to admit he is well and truly pinned.  
  
Everything has gone so quiet all of a sudden, just the sounds of the two of them trying to catch their breath, Harry sitting astride him now. His beanie has come off somewhere in the melee, and the lights of the pitch above him pick out his curls in silver. Louis has always known, intellectually, that Harry is bigger than him, but it‟s different to know it physically, to have Harry‟s body cover him and blot out the stars.

  
He‟s imagined them in this position before, but actually feeling Harry there, feeling him with his own actual body and not his imaginary daydream body, is a little too much. Half of him is knotted up in his nerve endings, incapable of rational thought, and half of him is miles away, clinically analyzing everything that‟s happening from somewhere in space. Both halves are about thirty seconds from catastrophic failure, and that could have consequences that Louis isn‟t prepared to deal with.

  
Louis meets Harry‟s eyes, and Harry‟s mouth slices open in a grin that leaves Louis as winded as any tackle.

  
“Gotcha,” Harry says. “Looks like I win.” He‟s frozen still, though, and while his smile is sure, there‟s a question in his eyes that Louis has no interest in answering, or doesn‟t know how. He thinks instead of the grass prickling against the back of his neck, narrows his focus to that single sensation.

  
“Is that how this works, then,” Louis says softly. He‟s stalling, holding off the moment he can feel humming toward them. Harry huffs a small laugh that turns to fog in the cold air. Louis had forgotten the temperature, can‟t quite take it seriously when he can feel the heat of Harry down to his bones. Even that has him reeling, the thought that the warmth seeping into him was part of Harry half a minute ago.

  
“You tell me,” Harry says quietly. Louis takes a deep breath, feeling panic thread its way through him, crackling along every nerve. He searches for a response, something clever and witty that will get him out of this without having to risk anything, but when he reaches for a rejoinder he finds his brain is full of static. His throat feels tighter and tighter, and when he lets out a breath a small whine comes with it.

Harry‟s hands loosen on his wrists, distracted, and if Louis is honest with himself, what happens next is pure fight or flight.

  
He surges upwards, taking advantage of Harry‟s moment of inattention, and bowls them both over. Leaving Harry flat on his back, Louis runs for the football, snatching it up with his hands. He‟s got no plan, no strategy besides move move keep moving, but when he looks back Harry is upright and running after him, thank God.

  
Louis runs the length of the half and carries the football between the goalposts. When he turns, football held overhead, Harry is slowing to a stop, a tired smile on his face and his beanie in his hand.

  
“You know, that‟s not actually how the game is played,” Harry says wearily, tugging his hat back onto his head.

  
“Expecting me to play by your rules was your first mistake, young Harry,” Louis says, tossing him the football.

  
Harry fixes him with a considering look. “Yeah, I guess it was,” he says, cocking his head to one side. Then he drops the football, and before Louis has time to react, Harry‟s grabbed him around the legs and heaved him over his shoulder into a fireman‟s carry, ignoring Louis‟ squawks of alarm and protest.

  
Louis contemplates his upside-down view of Harry‟s arm. He‟d like it better right-side up, and with his crotch not pressed dangerously against the muscle and bone of Harry‟s shoulder. It‟s a very nice arm, admittedly, but even so.

  
“Harry,” he says, his voice deceptively calm. “What the shit are you doing?”

  
“If you can make up rules, so can I,” Harry says, striding across the pitch. He doesn‟t even sound like he‟s making much of an effort, the bastard, and Louis needs to stop feeling things about how easy it is for Harry to physically throw him around or else he‟s going to find himself in a very compromising situation soon. “My rule says that the loser has to carry the winner off the field.” His grip on Louis‟ thigh tightens, and it‟s all Louis can do not to squirm against it.

  
“Good rule,” he says into Harry‟s arm. “Next time can you give the winner a bit of warning?”

  
“Next time the winner will be me,” Harry says, and Louis can hear the smile in his voice even if he can‟t see it. “So I‟ll be sure to let myself know.”

  
“Smartarse,” Louis grumbles. He glares down at the grass, which really isn‟t fair. The grass never made him have inconvenient sexual urges. At least not directly.

  
Then the world tilts and he‟s being set down, right-side up, on the edge of the pitch. Harry picks up his duffle bag and shuts the lights back off before opening the gate and ushering Louis through with a bow.

  
Louis smiles, even if he can‟t quite meet Harry‟s eyes. “I could get used to this,” he says, waiting for Harry to catch up. Harry just laughs.

  
They cross the carpark in silence again, and Louis can‟t quite tell what kind of silence it is. They reach his car, and it‟s only when Harry‟s bag hits his backseat with a thwap that Louis realises it‟s empty.

  
“Your football,” he says. “I‟m sorry, I didn‟t realise. We can—“

  
“I‟ll get it on Monday,” Harry says with a shrug. He slides into the passenger seat and pulls the door closed.

  
The drive back to Harry‟s is almost as quick as the drive to the school, and when Louis pulls up to his block of flats he can‟t decide if he wants Harry out of his car as fast as possible or if he wants to keep driving until his petrol runs out so Harry can‟t ever leave.

  
Harry unbuckles his seatbelt and reaches into the backseat for his bag. Then he turns to Louis, holding out his hand. Unsure, Louis clasps it in his own.

  
“Good game,” Harry says, the corner of his mouth quirked upwards, and then he slips out of the car, leaving Louis with a phantom warmth in his hand and a stupid expression on his face. Both stay in place the entire drive back to Louis‟ apartment, Louis doing his best to ignore the insistent pulsing in his groin.

  
He feels like he‟s suffocating in the small space of his car, overwhelmed by sense memory. Harry‟s weight pressing him into the ground. Harry‟s lip caught between his teeth in concentration. Harry‟s voice rumbling low in his chest. This whole thing has been throwing sparks at the dry kindling of his mad, terrible wanting, and now a fire‟s been lit under his skin, smoldering between his nerve endings and making him sweat in his seat.

  
When he finally makes it back to his apartment, he pauses only long enough to throw the deadbolt before staggering into his bedroom. He doesn‟t even make it onto the bed, falling on his knees just inside the door instead. He braces against the bed with his forearm, burying his face against the duvet, and pulls his sweatpants down just far enough to take himself in hand. He groans at the first touch, desperate for it, for anything.

  
He doesn‟t waste any time, taking tight, fast pulls, and fuck, it almost hurts to do it dry, but if he doesn‟t get some sort of release in the next two minutes he‟s going to die.

Breathing shallowly, he lets the leftover pieces of the night take over. He thinks of Harry above him, and the smell of grass, and how it would feel to get fucked with that grass against his skin and that face looking down at him. He imagines Harry taking him apart on the midfield line, under the lights, out in the open. He remembers Harry‟s hands tight on his wrists, and shudders wrack his entire body. One, two, three more strokes, and he‟s done, coming into his own hand with a broken sound.

  
He sits there he doesn‟t know how long, coming down less from his orgasm than from the entire night. God. He is a fucking wreck, and it‟s only getting worse. He can only imagine what Harry would think if he saw him like this, alone on his bedroom floor with his prick out and a hand full of come. What is wrong with him? He hasn‟t been like this over anyone since he was sixteen years old and terrified and helpless to stop himself from thinking of the fit boy from biology class every time he got himself off. This has gotten completely out of control.

  
Louis finally musters the energy to go clean himself up, deciding that staying on the floor until he withers into dust under the weight of his sad, sad state of affairs is not actually the way he wants to die. When he raises his head, though, eyes fall on his pillow. There sits Duchess, grooming one paw imperiously and staring at him with what can only be disdain.

  
He drops his face back onto the bed with a defeated whimper.


	5. Five

-L-

Louis is saved from having to try to sort out his pathetic life by the fact that Much Ado goes into its last two weeks before opening night. With interminable rehearsals every evening and dozens of errands to run during his free periods, he only sees Harry for short snippets of time. He‟s had to give up lunchtime for the sake of putting the finishing touches on the set and rounding up props, so even that is gone. Most of his interactions with Harry lately are down to a few unanswered text messages in his inbox and brushing by Harry on his way out the door with a strangled apology thrown back over his shoulder.

 

Thankfully, this means he is spared from having to look Harry in the eyes for any extended period of time, because he might actually have a stroke if that happened. He‟s tuned up so tightly right now that he can hardly even stand the thought of Harry on top of everything else, much less having to see him right in front of his face. The last damn thing he needs right now is to be forced to deal with the person who‟s keeping him up at night, fists in the bedclothes and aching for hands on his skin. High stress plus excruciating sexual frustration does not a winning combination make.

  
It seems like Harry‟s picked up on the fact that his behavior is more than just a mad dash to get everything ready in time for the first performance. Even running into him by the vending machines is still enough for him to figure out that Harry isn‟t quite touching him as much as he normally does, isn‟t quite smiling at him the same way. He feels guilty for pushing Harry away, because beyond his endless idiotic wanting, Harry is one of his closest friends, but he just can‟t cope with everything at once.  
  
He‟ll figure it out later when he isn‟t neck-deep in Shakespeare, trying to drag a couple dozen teenagers through their final few rehearsals.

  
“Stop, stop,” Louis yells from his seat in the audience. The two actors onstage turn to look at him, lines halfway out of their mouths, as Louis stands and walks toward the stage. “It‟s not worth running this scene if you two aren‟t off-book. And you aren‟t.” Two days before opening night, and his leads aren‟t off-book. Jesus. “Go run lines outside in the hallway.” They walk offstage, his female lead looking peevish.

  
“Marjorie, if you don‟t have that soliloquy memorized tomorrow, I‟ll, I‟ll—I don‟t know what I‟ll do, but none of us will like it.” Louis shouts after her. He rubs his hands over his face and tries not to hyperventilate.

  
“You look like you could use this,” someone says behind him, and oh God please no.

  
Louis turns and is abruptly confronted with the sight of Harry Styles in his theatre, because the universe is trying to send him into a psychotic break.

  
“What are you—” Louis starts, but then looks down to see the cardboard cup in Harry‟s hands.

  
“Yorkshire tea, no sugar,” Harry says, pushing it into his hands. Louis accepts it wordlessly. “Footy practice was cancelled, it‟s raining. What do you need?”

  
It‟s too much, Harry standing there asking to be whatever Louis needs except for the one thing he needs most, and Louis stares into the tea and tries to pick one emotion to feel. Exasperation seems like the least terrifying choice, considering his options. “Go keep an eye on the kids who are setting up the lights, try to make sure they don‟t kill themselves.” He holds back from thanking Harry, rude as it is, because if he starts letting himself react to things Harry does he isn‟t going to make it through the night alive.  
  
Harry nods once and walks toward the back of the theatre, and Louis takes a deep breath and turns back to see his cast milling around aimlessly. “You,” he says, picking out two of the boys. “Run your Act III scene again. With the blocking.” They groan and Louis is going to snap. “You‟ll thank me when you don‟t trip in front of hundreds of people. Run it.”

  
“What about the rest of us?” says one of the girls playing a bit part.

  
Louis rubs his temples. “Go and make sure all your costumes are finished and fit. Practice costume changes. Run your lines. Know that if I catch you slacking off I will mount your head on my wall as a trophy.” They scatter, and he turns back to the two boys. “Why aren‟t you running your scene? Go!”

  
He watches them critically, stepping in every once in a while to point out where they‟ve messed up their blocking or dropped a line. It seems like only a few minutes have passed, but suddenly he feels a light touch on his shoulder. He turns, and of course it‟s Harry, with a concerned look on his face that makes Louis want to cry.

  
“All the lights are ready,” he says. “I‟d run through the cues to make sure everything‟s hooked up right, but I wanted to check with you first since you‟re using the stage.”  
Louis looks at his watch and fuck, fuck, he‟s going to have to let the kids go soon.

  
“Give me a minute,” he says to Harry, who just nods again like he‟s got the patience of a fucking saint. Louis wants to hit him, wants to say something cruel just to get a reaction, because he does not have the emotional resources to deal with Harry being a good person right now.

  
Instead he turns back to the stage, cups his hands, and yells, “Everyone out here!” It takes a few seconds, but soon everyone is assembled, actors and crew alike, looking at him expectantly. “You‟ve all put in good work tonight,” he says. “We‟re going to need you to put in a lot more over the next two days. I know I‟m driving you hard, and I know you‟ve all got the end of term to deal with, but we‟re all going to have to push ourselves to get this show off the ground in time. Before you leave tonight, please, for the love of God, make sure that everything is cleaned up. If you‟re an actor, make sure you know where your costumes are. Crew, make sure the props are stored in some way that makes sense. If I have to clean up after any of you I will not be pleased.” He pauses, making sure they‟re appropriately terrified. “Then you can go home.”

  
They give a ragged cheer and disperse. Louis drops into one of the theatre seats and pinches the bridge of his nose, trying not to think about how much there is left to do. He looks up and sees Harry helping one of the members of the crew push the prop stairs off to the side of the stage, the muscles of his back visible through his t-shirt, and Louis really can‟t afford to process that.

  
He stands up and heads back to the sound booth, because someone really does need to check the lighting cues. As he runs through them, he can‟t help but watch what‟s happening onstage. Harry walking stage right, arms laden with props. Harry hugging a cast member who looks like she‟s about to cry. Harry picking up a table, arms flexing. Somehow when it‟s happening on the stage it‟s harder to ignore, and Louis stands in the booth, pressing buttons, wishing Harry were a worse person.

  
If he were worse, if he weren‟t so genuinely fucking pleasant to be around, Louis could just fuck him and get it over with. He could just get him, it, this, whatever it is, out of his system and never see him again and go on with his life. Sure, when Louis gets involved with someone it usually all goes to hell immediately, but if Harry could just be a shittier person that wouldn‟t matter. Half of the men Louis has ever slept with probably hate his guts, and Louis couldn‟t give less of a shit.

  
Except Harry isn‟t a shittier person: he‟s alone onstage folding costumes for Louis‟ play. Looking at him there under the spotlight, Louis can‟t lie to himself. If Harry ever hated him, he would be lost. And right now, it makes Louis fucking angry.

He walks out of the sound booth, slamming the door, and stalks down the aisle of the theatre. Harry and he are the last ones left, it looks like, which is good, because if Louis has to interact with one more person he‟s going to tear out his hair. He climbs the stairs without a word.

  
“Hey, I folded these but I don‟t know where—” Harry starts, but Louis has already grabbed the costumes from him. “Okay. I guess you know where they go,” Harry says, a note of worry in his voice. It‟s probably in his face, too, but Louis will be damned if he looks at him.

  
He walks stage right with the costumes, pulse roaring in his ears. He wants Harry gone, needs him out of his space before he loses it. “I don‟t want you to help,” he says bitingly, and God, he knows already it was a bad idea. There‟s a moment of silence, and Louis turns to look at Harry, to see what he‟s done.

 

“Louis,” Harry says carefully, holding up both hands, “what‟s going on?”

  
“I‟m fucking exhausted, that‟s what!” Louis snaps. “I‟m tired, and I‟ve got a play to put on in two days, and there are forty-five papers on my desk that still need to be marked, and I‟ve got to give final exams tomorrow, and there‟s no fucking time for anything, and my lead missed two weeks of rehearsals because he had pneumonia and he‟s still missing cues, and I had to change all the blocking for half of the scenes to hide Rupert Baker‟s bloody broken leg, and my rent‟s overdue, and I haven‟t had time to do laundry in two weeks, and then there‟s you walking around with your face and your shoulders and your football shorts and your being a good fucking person, and it‟s distracting, and I haven‟t got the fucking, fucking time.”

  
The words register to his own ears before he‟s even aware of them leaving his mouth, and Louis freezes, mouth hanging open, arms still wrapped around the bundle of costumes.

  
Fuck.  
  
Harry‟s staring at him from across the stage. Louis can see what he‟s said settle in behind his eyes and, shit, shit, bleeding buggering shit and a thousand screaming nuns.

  
“I... distract you?” Harry says slowly.

  
“I—what I mean to say—”

  
“I distract you,” Harry says again, and this time it spreads his mouth out into a smile.

  
“Er,” Louis says.

  
Louis has appreciated Harry‟s athleticism on more than one occasion, but it‟s still impressive that he manages to vault over a prop table and close the distance between them in a few swift movements, suddenly in Louis‟ space, tugging the mounds of fabric out of his arms. He sets them down on the floor and Louis doesn‟t know what‟s happening, doesn‟t know anything except that Harry is suddenly so close, close enough that Louis can smell his shampoo and it smells like one of those girly kinds, like strawberries and rose petals or something and Harry would use girls‟ shampoo because who even is he, and Louis is panicking, Louis is definitely, definitely panicking.

  
“Did you mean that?” Harry asks him, and the corners of his mouth are still curled up in a smile but there‟s no trace of a joke in the way that he says it.

  
“Um.” Every part of his body is screaming at him to lie, lie, lie, but what he says is, “I... Yes. I—Yeah, I did.”

  
And this is where Louis gets confirmation that Harry is not a sane person, because the way he looks at Louis makes no sense. Louis is the human equivalent of a bus speeding off of a cliff, into a gorge, on fire, and Harry is looking at him like he‟s Christmas come early, which makes Harry either very stupid or very psychopathic.  
  
Harry‟s hands ghost up Louis‟ arms, not quite touching, and Louis can‟t help but shiver at the phantom contact. Harry‟s expression turns soft and marveling, and Louis would probably be more embarrassed if every emotion he has weren‟t otherwise occupied.

  
Harry reaches up and carefully, carefully slides Louis‟ glasses off his face, then carefully, carefully folds them and slips them into Louis‟ shirt pocket. Louis hands hang uselessly at his sides, and his ears are full of the sound of his own hitching breaths. He‟s never felt so obvious in his life.

  
Harry leans in, impossibly closer, and Louis doesn‟t quite understand how they aren‟t touching, because even the air around him feels like Harry, even the stage beneath his feet. Harry reaches a hand towards his face, and Louis thinks finally, but his hand hovers and clenches into a fist.

  
“Louis,” Harry says, “don‟t make me fly blind, here,” and oh, that is enough.

  
“You complete shit,” Louis lets out in a rush, “I am about to fucking die waiting on you and you are just mmmph—”

  
And there it is, there, like the explosion at the end of a mile-long fuse. There was a gap and now there isn‟t, Harry‟s mouth on Louis‟ and his hands on his face. Louis can‟t help but gasp, his hands coming up to clutch at the crooks of Harry‟s elbows, his mind one big record scratch, stuck on the thought Harry kissed me he kissed me he kissed me and Christ, if he doesn‟t pull himself together in the next half-second he‟s going to miss it.

  
Harry kisses with intent, with focus, with singular purpose. Harry kisses Louis like it‟s premeditated, like he‟s planned every slick drag of his lips against Louis‟. Louis doesn‟t even try to keep up, still not quite able to believe what‟s happening, much less contribute to it. Harry‟s hands drop to his shoulders and the two of them are moving, Harry  
  
pushing Louis up against the side of the prop stairs. They‟re pressed together, knees to ribcage, and Louis is overwhelmed.

  
Harry pulls back, breathing heavily, one arm braced against the stairs by Louis‟ head. He searches Louis‟ face with wild eyes, pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed.

  
“Lou,” he says, voice rough, and Louis isn‟t sure what he‟s looking for but he‟s glad he asked. Louis breathes once, twice, and lifts a hand to Harry‟s face. He drags his thumb across Harry‟s bottom lip, and the way Harry‟s eyes fall closed makes something in him give way.

  
And now he‟s the one moving, crowding into Harry‟s space and kissing him frantically, threading his fingers through Harry‟s hair. Harry‟s hands are around his waist and his tongue is in his mouth and Louis is sure he had plans to do other things with his life but he can‟t for the life of him remember why he‟d want to do anything but this.

  
Harry‟s moving, and at first Louis thinks it‟s just the momentum of his own body carrying them backwards, but then Harry‟s grabbing his braces and blindly dragging him towards the mess of prop furniture in the middle of the stage. Louis feels Harry run into something, and then they‟re tipping over, Harry pulling Louis down with him. There‟s deja-vu in that half-moment of weightlessness, but then Louis lands heavily on top of Harry and finds he has other things to think about.

  
They‟re on a ratty prop sofa at center stage. Harry slides up to make more room, Louis crawling after him. One of Harry‟s hands flattens out over the small of Louis‟ back, pulling their bodies flush together, before flipping the two of them over in a single movement so slick that Louis is almost as impressed as he is turned on.  
“You‟re gonna have to teach me that move one day, Styles,” he says, sliding his fingers back into the hair at the nape of Harry‟s neck.  
Harry is grinning like a fool. “Is this okay?” he asks, nodding down at their position.

“Yes, Jesus,” Louis says, dragging Harry‟s head back down into a kiss. “How fragile do you think I am,” he mumbles against Harry‟s mouth. Harry responds by sucking hard on Louis‟ bottom lip. Louis can‟t help the whimper that escapes him, so, okay. Point taken.

  
He‟ll be damned if he lets that go unanswered, though, especially not when he can taste the smirk on Harry‟s lips. Louis arches his back and rolls his hips up into Harry‟s, pressing up into his solid weight. Harry‟s mouth falls open in a silent moan, letting Louis‟ tongue steal inside, but God, Louis wants more, wants to make Harry shake apart. He lets his legs fall open, framing Harry‟s thighs, and presses up into him again, sliding his hands up under his shirt.

  
Harry does groan now, pulling away from the kiss. “God, Lou,” he murmurs, his head falling into the curve of Louis‟ neck. He presses back this time, rolling his hips in slow, filthy circles against Louis‟ as his teeth scrape his throat. Louis draws a hissing breath and can‟t help but drag his nails down Harry‟s back, clinging on for dear life.

 

Louis is. Louis is probably going to die.

  
Harry sits back a little, and Louis leans up instinctively to follow him before realising that Harry‟s sliding his braces off his shoulders.

  
“What‟re you doing?” he asks inanely.

  
Harry‟s hands are back at his waist, tugging his shirttails out of his trousers. “If I don‟t put my hands on you soon I‟m going to lose my mind,” he says matter-of-factly. “All of you.”

  
Fuck, Louis thinks, trying to assess the situation rationally. “Fuck,” he says, grabbing hold of Harry‟s hands. “Harry, I can‟t fuck you on, on the sofa we‟re using in the show. That‟s, God, that‟s definitely unethical.”  
  
Harry seems unperturbed, moving to kiss the other side of Louis‟ neck. “Whose ethics are we talking about?” he says lightly. “My ethics are fine with this.” He bites down on Louis‟ collarbone. “I find you being clothed unethical.”

  
“Shit, Jesus, I am going to murder you,” Louis says, pushing Harry‟s head away. Harry just grins at him, his mouth red and obscene. “Can you, Christ, can you hold that thought for, like, however long it takes to get to my flat?” Harry rolls his eyes exaggeratedly, but slides back down the sofa enough that Louis can stand on wobbling legs.

  
“Keys,” Louis says, patting down his pockets. “Keys, fucking keys, my entire kingdom for my fucking—shit.”

  
“I‟ve got your kingdom right here, babe,” Harry snickers, already crowding up behind him, breath hot under his shirt collar, and can he not, for three seconds, Christ on crutches.

  
“You are,” Louis says, feeling Harry smile against the back of his neck, “the least helpful human I have ever met. Also, my keys are in my classroom, because of course they are, so.”

  
“So let‟s go get them,” Harry says. He finally peels off and jumps ahead of Louis, leading the way out the side door of the theatre and into the hallway. Louis swears under his breath and takes off after him.

  
It‟s, it‟s... surreal, actually. Unbelievable. He barely has his wits about him enough to pray that nobody is around this late to see him like this, shirt halfway untucked in the front, braces tugged loose on one side, mouth raw and red from Harry‟s teeth and the faint stubble on his jaw. He looks for all the world like a horny teenager, and he can‟t remember the last time he let anyone get him like this, and it hits him all of the sudden that it‟s Harry that‟s done this to him. Impossible Harry with his ridiculous curls and his wide open smiles and his heart that fills up rooms and rooms and rooms, Harry who pulled him out of a cardboard box and pinned him down on the football pitch and played Whitesnake for Zayn at a carwash, Harry who he‟s been trying not to fall for for months because, obviously, in what world do things like this actually happen to Louis Tomlinson?

  
And the thing is, Harry wants him. Not just accepts what Louis wants from him but wants him right back, hungry and restless, pulling Louis down the hall by his hand, hair and eyes wild with it. Louis has never met anyone in his life as sure of himself and what he wants as Harry is, and what Harry wants, apparently, is him.

  
Louis skids to a stop because he feels like he‟s about to have an aneurysm, and he pulls on Harry‟s arm to turn him around.

 

“Wait,” Louis says, because he has to know, “the whole time?”

  
“Yes, the whole time,” Harry tells him impatiently, like it costs him nothing, already picking his pace back up again. “Now can we please keep moving?”

  
And, well, Louis can‟t argue with that, because he‟s beaming now and he‟s pretty sure he‟ll combust on the spot if he can‟t have Harry‟s mouth on him again in the next thirty seconds, so it‟s just as well that they‟re stumbling up to his classroom. It‟s the last room with its lights still on, and Louis actually manages to let go of Harry‟s hand for a few seconds to dart inside. He‟s at his desk, hand already extended for the keys resting there, when he hears the door snap shut and lock behind him.

  
He turns around, and Harry‟s already right behind him, backing him into the side of his desk.

  
“I can‟t make it back to your flat,” Harry says. “I can‟t fucking wait any more. Please, just—”

  
Harry cuts himself off with a kiss pressed hard and bruising against Louis‟ mouth, and this is probably a bad idea but Harry‟s still kissing him and this is happening and there‟s not a single part of Louis that wants it to stop. Louis wraps his fist around the front of Harry‟s shirt and kisses him back just as hard and hopes it‟s enough to tell him yes, yes, God, please.  
This time around, it‟s Louis that reaches for the waistband of Harry‟s shorts first, and Harry that stops his hands.  
Their lips break apart, and there‟s a breathless, frozen moment with Harry‟s hands tangled up in his, their mouths just barely brushing, and he knows Harry‟s asking permission again.

  
“Anything,” Louis says. He‟s terrified of the size of that word. He doesn‟t take it back.

  
Harry, the son of a bitch, actually winks. And then he drops to his knees.

  
“Holy God,” Louis says. He‟s already hard, almost embarrassingly so and has been since Harry hips first fell in line with his, and Harry‟s not mucking about anymore. He makes fast work of Louis‟ braces, and Louis‟ breathing shudders to a halt as Harry yanks his trousers open and shoves them down just far enough. The trunks Louis has got on are a nightmarish red polka dot number, the last clean pair he had left. Maybe he‟ll find the time to feel humiliated about it later, but at the moment Harry is smiling wickedly up at him from under thick eyelashes and slipping his fingers under the waistband and snapping the elastic gently against his hip and Louis has never been farther from caring about anything in his entire life.

  
It‟s been so long. So many months of wanting, of telling himself not to want, of imagining what it would be like and seeing ghosts of Harry behind his eyelids as he sweated into his own sheets, and none of it prepared him for this.

  
His hands scramble behind him for something to hold onto because Harry‟s tugging him out of his underwear and Louis feels like he‟s going to collapse or die or go flying off the surface of the earth if he can‟t get a grip on something immediately. One of his hands closes on the stack of unmarked papers on his desk, the other on some hideous novelty stapler he got for last year‟s faculty Secret Santa, and, God, hysterical laughter comes bubbling up his throat because Harry is going down on him against his desk, and- Then Harry licks his lips and takes him all the way down in one smooth, wet motion and Louis is not laughing anymore.

  
The shock of it sings through Louis‟ entire body, and his torso arches forward, curved around Harry like a sapling in a hurricane. He‟s not sure what he was expecting. He has no real idea of how much experience Harry has with men, and for all Harry‟s confidence, he thought he‟d have to work up to it, but no, no, Harry‟s nose is brushing against his stomach and it‟s all Louis can do to swallow the insane, desperate noise that pulls out of his chest.

  
He looks down and realises that his hand is on the back of Harry‟s neck, and he almost apologizes before he sees the laughter in Harry‟s eyes. Then Harry does something obscene and incredible with his tongue and fuck, Louis‟ never seen anyone give a smug blowjob before, but if anyone could it would be Harry Styles.

  
Harry picks up rhythm, long slow pulls, and Louis has to close his eyes, because the way it feels combined with the sight of Harry‟s lips dragging down him is too much. He feels Harry‟s hands slide up the back of his legs, supporting him, and thank God for that because his knees are about to give out. Harry pulls almost all the way off and sucks hard, and Louis can‟t help the tremor that goes through him or the choked noise he makes, and Christ, he can feel Harry respond, can feel his hum of approval, and this is going to be over almost before it begins.

  
Louis forces his eyes open, because if he doesn‟t get a visual memory of this he‟ll probably convince himself it was a dream. Harry‟s eyes are closed, and Louis‟ll be damned if he doesn‟t give head like he kisses, like it‟s the only thing he‟s ever planned on doing. Louis can‟t keep from sliding his hand up into Harry‟s hair, tugging gently at the slightly sweaty curls. Harry‟s eyes flick up to meet his, and it‟s not laughter that Louis sees there now, that has him holding white-knuckled to the desk.

  
Harry slides one hand away from Louis‟ thigh and fuck, fuck, slips it into his own shorts, and Louis wants to see him so badly but can‟t make himself move. He settles for just watching the way the muscles in Harry‟s arms work, the way they move under his skin as he touches himself.

  
Harry seems almost as overwhelmed as Louis feels, pulling off briefly and breathing heavily. “Fuck,” he says, his voice wrecked and his mouth slick, before sliding his lips back over Louis eagerly. Louis would agree, but the feeling of Harry‟s mouth around him and the thought that it‟s getting Harry off has torn his mind entirely in half.

  
Harry pulls off again, his hand working frantically in his shorts. He leans his forehead against Louis‟ hip, Louis‟ fingers carding helplessly through his hair. “Fuck, Lou,” he says, pressing a kiss to the skin there, “I‟ve wanted—fuck, I can‟t believe I get to do this.” His breath is coming fast now, his fingers digging into the back of Louis‟ thigh. “I‟m so close,” he says roughly, before taking Louis back down all the way.

  
His words register in Louis‟ brain about the same time Louis feels himself hit the back of Harry‟s throat, and that is the end of that. Louis has barely enough time to try to warn Harry, pulling on his hair, but Harry doesn‟t move, swallowing around Louis as he comes. He pulls off a moment too early, letting a little spill over his lips, and even in his post-orgasmic haze Louis can‟t keep from dragging his fingers over the mess on Harry‟s mouth, has to touch him to make sure this is real. Harry sucks two of Louis‟ fingers into his mouth, hard, and looks up at him unblinkingly.

  
“Haz,” Louis says weakly, unable to look away.

  
He can‟t actually see Harry come, but he feels Harry bite down hard on his fingers before his mouth goes completely slack, shuddering through it with a groan.  
  
Louis‟ fingers slip out and he wants hold Harry while he comes down, wants to kiss him undone again and again, wants so many huge, aching things in that moment that it should scare the hell out of him. He wants Harry to live the rest of his life spread out in his bed if it means he can see that look on his face every day and know he‟s the one that put it there. He wants so many things all at once that he feels a little bit like he‟s been hit by a bus.

  
Harry‟s grip loosens and Louis‟ knees finally do give out this time, dropping him heavily to the floor. He lands halfway on top of Harry and knocks him off balance until the two of them are a tangle of limbs pressed up against the side of Louis‟ desk, breathing hard and still riding it all out.

  
They‟re silent for a few moments, just Harry‟s curls tickling the side of his face because his head is buried in Louis‟ chest, right over the place where his heart can‟t seem to even back out. And then, and then—Harry laughs, and that‟s it, Louis is done, he‟s bent over Harry‟s body with laughter, both of them seizing up with it like it‟s the funniest damn thing that‟s ever happened to them. And for Louis it kind of is, really. Last night he was torrenting Dance Moms and pouring himself a glass of wine to get him through writing up two different final exams while also going over the lighting cues and trying not to think about the way Harry‟s collarbones look in a deep v-neck.

  
Today... well.

  
“Jesus bloody fucking Christ,” Louis says finally, still laughing a little and stumbling over the consonants. Perhaps not his most eloquent moment, but under the circumstances, he thinks he deserves some credit for managing actual words at all.

  
“Is that his full name, then?” Harry says, because he is a smug son of a bitch. Louis opens his eyes to tell him as much, but the look on Harry‟s face makes all the air in his lungs leave him. He doesn‟t look smug, just spent and dirty and beautiful and absolutely dazed with happiness. Louis did that.  
  
Before he even thinks about it, Louis grabs Harry‟s idiot face in both hands and kisses him, just as natural as you please. It‟s a short kiss because neither of them can stop smiling long enough but it‟s all they need right now, a little stitch to hold this moment in place.

  
“So,” Harry says, beaming, “I sort of fancy you.”

  
Louis rolls his eyes. “I think I‟ve just made it abundantly clear that I fancy you too, you wanker.”

  
Harry swats at his shoulder and laughs again and Louis, God, Louis is trying so hard to keep pace with him, to keep this easy and simple. Harry is smiling like this is the easiest decision he‟s ever made, and Louis is smiling too, but taking deep breaths, trying to keep things in perspective. He‟s had blowjobs before, several of which were even quite memorable. And sure, maybe this one makes the rest a little difficult to recall, and maybe he never laughed like a teenager on top of any of the others, but... shit. It doesn‟t have to be a big deal, right? Shit.

  
Louis tries to relax, to stay in this impossible moment, but he can‟t stop his brain from racing ahead. Harry fancies him, and said so like he was giving it away, but Louis isn‟t sure fancy is really the word for what he‟s feeling, and fuck. He can‟t even remember the last time he admitted that he fancied someone, and now it suddenly doesn‟t even feel like enough. Deep breaths, he focuses on deep breaths, feeling his rib cage expand against Harry‟s solid weight.

  
“What now?” Harry murmurs, picking his head up off Louis‟ chest. He looks Louis right in the eye. There‟s no expectation in his face, but Louis knows what he‟s really asking, can feel all that‟s behind the question even if there‟s no urgency in his voice. He thinks of everything he feels coiled tensely in his chest, and knows that now is the moment to let it out or hold his peace.

  
The moment slows and stretches. Louis thinks now I trick you into staying with me, thinks if you get up I‟ll kill you, thinks I can‟t remember a time I wasn‟t waiting for you.

“Still want to come back to my flat?” is what he says. Harry blinks and then nods, half-smiling, and Louis pushes his guilt to the back of his brain.

  
Harry reaches up over him, bracing his hand on the desk behind Louis‟ head and leaning in close enough that his breath is hot on Louis‟ ear and Louis can almost feel the way his mouth curls up on one side.

  
“You have no idea,” Harry says, and usually Harry mumbles, but this time he deliberately pronounces every sound so that Louis won‟t miss a word, “the things I want to do to you.”

  
He catches Louis‟ earlobe between his tongue and his teeth for half a second and then he‟s gone, standing up and dusting himself off, holding Louis‟ keys in his hand, grinning like the hellspawn that he obviously is because how the fuck is Louis supposed to deal with that?

  
Louis scrambles upright and pulls up his trousers, fingers shaking. He moves to start fixing his braces, but Harry lets out a loud sigh, bouncing on the balls of his feet.  
“Christ, Tomlinson, you think you could hurry up? These shorts aren‟t exactly comfortable anymore,” Harry says, shifting his weight back and forth.

  
Louis snorts, tucking in his shirt. “It‟s not my fault you came in your pants.”

  
Harry arches an eyebrow. “Debatable.” He tosses Louis his keys. “Pick up the pace, Lou, If your dick recovers while we‟re still in the car then you‟re getting roadhead, and I don‟t want to die tonight.”

  
Louis breaks every single speed limit on the way home.

 


	6. six and sex

-L-

“I think I‟m dead,” Louis says. His voice is hoarse and tired for more reasons than one. He‟s not sore yet, but he‟s fairly certain that once it sets in he will never not be for the rest of his life. “I think you‟ve killed me.”

  
“I haven‟t killed you,” Harry says, and Louis can hear the smile in his voice without having to see it. He‟s sauntering around the wreckage of the kitchen in all his naked glory, thoroughly sated agent of chaos that he is, Louis and Louis‟ apartment equally destroyed around him. There are pants on the bookshelf. Actual pants. This is a thing that is happening in Louis‟ life. This is a thing that Harry Styles did to him.

  
From where Louis is sprawled on the sofa, he‟s got a clear view through his bedroom door. The mattress is drooping halfway off the frame on one side looking utterly defeated, and the duvet has been slung over the chair in the corner. There‟s an empty bottle of wine wedged under the nightstand and the lamp is dangling by its cord over the side (he remembers that one, his mouth around Harry and one of Harry‟s elbows jerking involuntarily to the side as he arched up into it). The papers he‟d been keeping on the kitchen counter are everywhere. He can vaguely recall letting out a strangled noise and sweeping them all onto the floor with one hand and bending Harry over the tiles, and how Harry had loved it, had loved Louis taking control.

  
It‟s 5 a.m. now. Louis has a bite mark on his hip. Louis has a bruise forming on his ribs. Louis may never leave this sofa again.  
  
“I have to collect term papers today,” Louis says, staring at the ceiling. The sex haze is starting to settle around him, and the anxiety is creeping back in. “I have to put on a play on Friday.”

  
“You can do it,” Harry says easily. Louis can hear the sound of him dislodging a skillet from the drawer under the stove that he never opens.

 

“I don‟t think I can, though,” Louis says. “I don‟t even think I can move, actually.”

  
Harry doesn‟t answer at first, busy pulling the carton of eggs out of the fridge and a bowl from the cabinet. Of course Louis would become involved with the only person in the world capable of making omelets after an all night sex parade.

  
But then suddenly there‟s Harry‟s face hanging upside down over the back of the couch, smiling crookedly at him, curls falling everywhere. He‟d look almost angelic if it weren‟t for the fact that he‟s completely starkers and Louis can just make out the swelling on his lower lip from where he bit down on it while getting sucked off against the bathroom wall.

  
“You‟ll be okay,” Harry says. He leans down and presses a sideways kiss to Louis‟ lips. “You‟ve got me.”

  
Louis smiles on reflex, because it‟s nice, and then the feeling in his chest hits his throat and he chokes on it. He wraps his hand around the back of Harry‟s neck and pulls him down into another kiss before he has a chance to say anything else huge and terrifying, and Harry complies happily, opening his mouth to let Louis‟ tongue inside.

  
As long as this keeps going, as long as it‟s Harry‟s mouth and Harry‟s body to distract him, he can keep everything else at bay. People have casual sex all the time. Hell, he used to have casual sex all the time. He can do it again. He doesn‟t have to fall into anything.  
  
Harry‟s mouth breaks off for half a moment and then he‟s climbing over the back of the sofa and straddling Louis‟ hips and, Christ, he‟s already starting to get hard again. Should that even be possible? Even after the hour-long interlude on the coffee table? Even after the thing with the jam? Obviously Harry is some kind of sex demon designed specifically to ruin him.

  
Harry leans back down and kisses him properly, and it‟s just. It‟s not fair how perfectly their angles line up. Louis doesn‟t stand a chance against the way his lip fits between the soft pull of Harry‟s, the way Harry‟s hand settles into the small of his back like it belongs there. It‟s too good, too much, and that‟s why Louis hasn‟t been able to make himself disengage for what feels like days but has only been hours, since the first kiss under the stage lights.

  
Stage lights. Shit. He left all the stage lights on, and all those costumes out, and he‟ll need to go in early today to get everything back in order before classes start for the day, and then he needs to make copies of worksheets and call his set designer to make sure the last piece will be painted in time, and he should really get in the shower soon, shit—  
“Stop thinking,” Harry says, voice whiskey-rough and vibrating deep in Louis‟ chest where they‟re pressed together. “Just a little longer.”

  
Yes, all right, his brain says, because really, how can he hope to argue with that, but then Harry slides his mouth down to Louis‟ throat and starts working on a bruise and Louis has to stop him.

  
“Wait, wait,” he says, tugging lightly on Harry‟s hair to get him to pull off. “Not there. Too visible.”

  
Harry whines a little. “Come on, Lou. I wanna do it somewhere people can see.”

  
Louis rolls his eyes, ignoring the rush of heat Harry‟s words send through him. He doesn‟t have enough left in him to deal with that, much less flip them over, so he just pulls on Harry‟s elbow and makes  
  
discontented noises until Harry gets the hint and switches their positions.

  
“Put your hands above your head,” Louis tells him.

  
Harry smirks and does as he‟s told, grabbing onto the armrest behind him and wriggling his hips a little under Louis‟. Cheeky bastard. Louis kisses him once more on the lips, then the side of his neck, then bows his head and sinks his teeth into the inside of his left bicep. Harry hisses at the pressure, hooking one of his knees around Louis‟, and Louis sucks hard enough on his skin to make him dig his fingernails into Louis‟ back.

  
When he‟s satisfied with his work, he breaks the suction with a small, wet sound and plants a kiss on the spot.

  
“There,” Louis says. He pulls back to let Harry see the place where he‟s been marked, vivid red on fair skin in the shape of Louis‟ mouth. “Visible but inconspicuous. Nobody even has to see it unless you want them to. The perfect solution.”

  
Harry smiles up at him, and Louis isn‟t sure if he‟s pleased with being marked or with Louis‟ ingenuity. “All right,” he says, reaching up to touch Louis‟ lips with the tip of his finger. “That‟ll be your spot, then.”

  
Thankfully, Louis is saved from having to come up with a response to that when Harry slaps him on the arse and nudges him off. “Now go on, get in the shower. I‟ll even give you five minutes before I come in after you.”

  
“How generous of you,” Louis says, wobbling to his feet.

  
Harry just presses his lips together like he‟s trying to contain his smile. “You‟ve no idea.”

When Louis finally makes it to the bathroom, he has to take a moment to brace himself before looking at his reflection in the mirror above the sink. He‟s not sure what to expect at all.

  
Debauched, he believes, is the word for what he sees when he opens his eyes. His hair is a absolute catastrophe, the Hindenburg of hairdos, mussed up in the back and greasy from sweat and matted with jam on one side and, seriously, whose fucking idea was the jam? His mouth is rubbed red and raw. The marks on his ribs and hip are already turning colors from pink to purple, and Louis thanks the powers that be for whatever miracle of restraint that kept him from letting Harry put one of those on his throat. There‟s no way he could have hidden that without some really elaborate scarf maneuvering.

  
He‟s a complete mess, and worst of all, he likes it.

  
“Get a grip,” he says to his reflection.

  
He pulls back the shower curtain and almost has a heart attack when he sees something lurking in his bathtub until he realises it‟s Duchess, curled up in the corner and looking deeply reproachful. Apparently the bath had been the only safe place left in his flat.

  
“Sorry, love,” Louis says, reaching out to stroke her head apologetically. She glares at him and evades his touch, leaping out of the bath and disappearing around the door.  
True to his word, Harry gives him enough time to wash his hair in peace under lukewarm water before climbing into the shower behind him. He slides his hands through the suds on Louis‟ stomach and pulls his back up against his own chest, dropping his head down over Louis‟ shoulder to kiss the wet skin on the side of his neck. Louis‟ body melts into the touch, and he closes his eyes, shutting his brain up for a few minutes just to feel Harry‟s hands spanning his hips and Harry‟s wet hair sticking to his cheek. Every inch of Harry‟s body is slick and close, and Louis gets to have all of that, gets to touch it however he wants.  
  
He covers one of Harry‟s hands with his own, and he feels Harry smile against his shoulder.

-Z-

Zayn is such a wonderful friend, honestly. He reminds himself of this interminable truth as he hugs his cardigan tighter against his body and soldiers on down the corridor. Who else would drag himself out of bed at this kind of unforgivable hour, a full thirty minutes earlier than usual, just to stop by to check in on how Louis is doing with everything he‟s juggling at the moment? No one. Well, maybe Harry, but he doesn‟t count. Wanting to fuck someone begets feats of superhuman strength and dedication. Zayn would know.

  
He rounds the corner to Louis‟ hall and almost stops in his tracks. There‟s a single classroom with its door open pouring light into the dim hallway, and from it Zayn can hear the sounds of singing.

  
He knows Louis can sing. You don‟t have the kind of long-term, codependent relationship Louis has with theater without that kind of talent. Years ago he dug up the videos of teenage Louis as Danny Zuko on YouTube and teased him about them for a month, but even in grainy video of a low-budget school play, it was clear that once upon a time Louis Tomlinson lived to perform. He hardly ever lets anyone hear him sing anymore, having apparently packed that part of himself away with the part that believes romance is anything other than a waste of time.

  
But right here in front of his face is Louis standing up on a stool in his classroom, stapling papers up to the bulletin board and singing to himself, “Met a boy, cute as can be—”

  
“Morning,” Zayn says.

  
Louis almost falls off his stool in surprise. He whips his head around, clutching the wall for support, but his shoulders relax when he sees that it‟s only Zayn.  
  
“Oh, hello,” he says, trying too hard for casual and advancing directly to Definitely Hiding Something. “What are you doing here so early?”

  
“I was coming to see if you needed any help,” Zayn says. He narrows his eyes at Louis. He‟s got circles under his eyes and he‟s favoring his left side, but every other part of him looks totally at peace, satisfied and... oh. “Good Lord. You finally shagged Harry.”

  
“What?” Louis chirps, half-falling and half-climbing down from his stool. “How did you—oh God, it doesn‟t,” his eyes dart around the room in horror, “it doesn‟t smell like anything in here, does it?”

  
“What, no, why would...” Zayn‟s brain catches up to Louis‟ words, and he suddenly feels deeply distrustful of every desk in the room. “Louis. You didn‟t.”

  
“No, no,” Louis says quickly. “I, of course not. Ethics and all that.”

  
Zayn relaxes a bit, but his smugness stays in place. He knew it. He‟s been trying to tell Louis for months that Harry was well set to fuck, and he was right. He knows.

  
“But you did shag Harry,” he says, grinning. Louis opens and closes his mouth a few times, looking like a flustered, recently-shagged fish, but he can‟t seem to come up with a lie. His shoulders slump in defeat finally, and it‟s all Zayn can do not to laugh aloud.

 

“How did you know?” Louis says, surrendering.

  
“Mate,” Zayn says, placing a hand on Louis‟ shoulder. “You were singing „Summer Nights.‟”

  
Louis pulls a face. “So?”  
  
“It‟s December, and you‟re you,” Zayn says, and he can‟t help but laugh at the rueful expression on Louis‟ face. It‟s a nice look on him. “Relax, Lou, I‟m happy for you. Was it, you know, good?”

  
Zayn‟s heard all the graphic details of Louis‟ sexual exploits more than once, descriptions of the backsides of men he‟s never met and details he never wanted to know, but this time Louis just laughs a little, turning his face away. “He‟s very... agile,” Louis says, and the way he blushes tells Zayn all he needs to know. So Louis Tomlinson is capable of bashfulness after all, eh? Zayn is going to have fun with this.

  
“Tell me more, Louis,” Zayn says, as serious as he can manage. “Tell me more. Did you get very far?”

  
“I am five seconds from braining you with this stapler,” Louis says, but there‟s no force to it at all. He‟s blushing too much to look threatening.

  
“So, the two of you are...” Zayn eyes him. “What, now?”

  
Louis drops his eyes, shrugging. “I don‟t know. It‟s not... I don‟t know.” He coughs. “Oh, by the way, have you got the the code to unlock the copy machine upstairs? The one down here isn‟t working, and I‟ve never used the other one before.”

  
“Yeah, I‟ll walk up there with you after first period,” Zayn says dismissively, knowing an attempt at a subject change when he sees one. “So you haven‟t had that talk yet?”

  
Louis keeps pretending to be intensely interested in the stapler. “Hmm? What talk?”

  
Zayn rolls his eyes. It‟s hard enough to get Louis to open up about this kind of thing on a normal day, God knows this is going to be like pulling teeth. “The talk. The, oh, hey, we used to be friends who don‟t shag and now we‟re friends who do, talk.”

“No, we, uh,” Louis clears his throat. “We‟re going to put that stuff off until after the play is done, you know? And the end of term. I‟m busy with work, and he‟s got finals, so. We‟ll deal with that later.” He accidentally opens the stapler and hurriedly closes it again. “And, um, no more. You know. Sex. Until after the term's over.”

  
Zayn raises his eyebrows, leaning back against Louis‟ desk. “And you talked to him about this?”

  
“Yes,” Louis says defensively. “And we‟ll talk about the other stuff, too. Eventually.”

  
“Okay, okay, it‟s none of my business,” Zayn says, holding up his hands.

  
“I don‟t see that there‟s so much to talk about, anyway,” Louis mumbles. “Like you said, we‟re friends who shag now. Doesn‟t seem like rocket science.”

  
“That is not what I—Christ.” Zayn runs a hand over his face. “None of my business. Right. Anyway. Is this all hush-hush or can I tell Niall?”

  
Louis laughs. “Niall can know, yeah, not that he‟ll care. No one else, though, okay? Don‟t need any other nosy parkers asking questions.” He prods Zayn in the stomach, and Zayn slaps him lightly on the back of the head.

  
“Just looking out for you, prick. All right, I‟ve got to go unlock my room. See you in a bit.” He walks out of the room and makes it halfway down the hall before he turns back, ducking his head into Louis‟ classroom again.

  
“Hey, Lou?” Louis looks up at him expectantly. “I really am happy for you, yeah?” Louis ducks his head, but Zayn can still see the helpless smile on his face.  
  
“Thanks, Zayn,” Louis says in a little voice, and Zayn hums to himself as he walks back down the hallway. If what he hums is “Summer Nights,” he certainly doesn‟t plan on telling Louis.

  
He‟s glad later that he stopped in that morning, because after he helps Louis with the copy machine he barely sees him until opening night of the play. Zayn‟s got the term to finish up, too, and even when he has a free moment, Louis doesn‟t. Every spare second Louis has is spent on the play, and even when Zayn drops by rehearsals to pitch in Louis is torn in about twenty directions at once, usually only having time to direct Zayn towards something that needs to get done before haring off to deal with five other problems.  
The upside, though, is that he gets to watch Louis and Harry interact, since Harry seems to take any opportunity to show up at the theatre, usually with tea. They‟re always around students, so the two of them probably think they‟re keeping a lid on things, but even if Louis hadn‟t told Zayn what had happened Zayn would have been able to figure it out when he saw them together. He knows what to look for.

  
When Zayn moved into his flat three years ago, his mum had come over to help him decorate. When they were done—or when he‟d thought they were done—she‟d gone out to her car and come back inside with two small houseplants. She‟d told him he shouldn‟t be the only living thing in his home, kissed him on the cheek, and put them on the windowsill. By the time Christmas had rolled around, both the plants had been distinctly crooked, growing unerringly towards the sunlight that streamed through the window every afternoon. Harry and Louis are like those plants, if plants could be sunlight to each other.

  
They‟d been bad before, but now it‟s so much clearer, the way they unconsciously turn to and gravitate towards each other. Harry is tentative with it, moving slow and steady around Louis like he‟s a skittish animal Harry is afraid of spooking, and Zayn keeps catching him reaching out to touch Louis and then pulling back at the last second. Louis, for his part, still seems a little incredulous, watching Harry from across the room and psyching himself up for several minutes before he‟ll wander over, sliding his fingers over Harry‟s wrist, and then scurry off to some other urgent task, a look on his face like he can‟t believe he got away with it. Other times Louis will catch Harry staring, and his face will light up in an unreserved smile before he remembers himself and flees backstage, Harry grinning after him.

  
It‟s sweet, and childish, and rare, and Zayn is half thrilled for his friends and half seethingly jealous. In the long run, though, it‟s just proof of his belief in the power of love to move even the most immovable of mountains (read: Louis Tomlinson‟s pride), so he really can‟t complain.

  
It‟s enough to light a fire under his own arse, so to speak. Nothing quite like two of your close friends shagging to make you desperate to get your own epic romance back in motion. He spends three days working up the nerve, drafting and deleting two dozen different messages, before he finally sends Liam a text inviting him to Louis‟ annual birthday/Christmas party on Christmas Eve. Liam‟s response is full of genuine thanks and a promise to try to make it if he can get off of work, and Zayn maybe does a victory lap around his flat in just his pants.

  
Even with all the time he spends compulsively checking to see if Liam‟s got any word on whether or not he‟ll be able to go, the end of the week passes in a flurry. Zayn gives his exams, and collects final papers, and when he collapses into his seat on the opening night of Much Ado About Nothing he is finally, finally done with the term.  
He‟s just pulling out his phone to stare at his empty inbox some more when someone slides into the seat next to him, and he turns to see Harry.  
“Mind if I join you?” Harry asks.

  
“Course not,” Zayn says, pocketing his phone again. Since Niall is up in the sound booth, he doesn‟t really have anyone else to sit with anyway. And he‟s been meaning to talk to Harry for a few days now, actually. “So, you done with finals yet?”

  
Harry heaves a sigh. “Yeah, finally. Turned in my last project today. Was up all night in the darkroom, but it feels good to be done. You?”

  
Zayn nods. “Finished today too. I mean, I‟ve got a shitload of marking to do over the holidays, but it could be worse.” They lapse into silence for a few minutes, watching other audience members take their seats and catching glimpses of cast members peeking out from behind the curtains, before Zayn clears his throat.

  
“So,” he says. “Harry.”

  
Harry turns in his seat, looking at him with a poorly-concealed smile. “Zayn.”

  
Zayn feels like a twat, but he has responsibilities. “Louis and I have been friends for a very long time now.” Harry nods. “And he may be an utter bastard, but I‟m fond of him anyway.”

  
Another nod. “I know what you mean.”

  
Zayn can‟t help but smile a little at that, before schooling his face back into seriousness. “Since I‟m fond of him, I would be very upset if he were to, I don‟t know, be hurt in any way. By anyone.” He looks Harry in the eyes. “And I am, as you know, very familiar with various arson techniques.”

  
“Duly noted,” Harry says, continuing to fail at hiding his grin.

  
Zayn keeps his eye contact level and even. “Very. Familiar.”

  
He holds Harry‟s gaze for about five more seconds before cracking up. “God, I almost had it,” he says, giggling, and he‟s set Harry off into full-blown cackles.

“Don‟t worry, man, if I didn‟t know you I‟d have shit myself,” he says, wiping away tears. “Arson techniques, fuck me.” He claps Zayn on the back. “You‟re a good friend, man. I‟m glad he has you.”

  
Zayn reaches out and ruffles his hair. “You both have me, you prat.” At that moment, the lights begin to dim, and they both withdraw to their respective sides of the armrest and settle back for the show. “I will murder you, though,” Zayn whispers as the curtain parts, and Harry gives him a thumbs-up before the first soliloquy starts.

  
The play is good—surprisingly good, if Zayn‟s going to be honest. The two leads have great chemistry, sparking off each other, and good enough comedic timing that the audience laughs where they‟re supposed to. The final scene arrives before Zayn ever gets bored, and when he joins the standing ovation he finds he really means it. Every cast member gets their moment in the spotlight, and then Louis is dragged onstage by the two leads for a round of applause of his own. Next to Zayn, Harry puts two fingers in his mouth and lets out a piercing whistle.

  
As the applause dies off, people start getting up and trickling out of the theatre. Harry and Zayn move against the flow of traffic, heading to the stage, where Louis is hugging various actors and crew members. When he turns and sees them approaching, he hops down off the stage and pulls them both into an embrace.

  
“Oh my God, it wasn‟t terrible, it actually wasn‟t terrible,” he says in a rush, muffled by the side of Harry‟s head. Zayn laughs and pulls out of the group hug, watching the way Harry‟s arm slips to circle Louis‟ waist. He glances backwards, feeling suddenly protective of them, and shifts slightly to block the two of them from the audience‟s view.  
“It wasn‟t even a little terrible,” he tells Louis, whose face is still half-hidden in Harry‟s shoulder. “Well, except for when Claudio sneezed on Hero, but I suppose that wasn‟t really his fault.”

  
“Yeah, and Beatrice and Bendy Dick were really good,” Harry adds.  
  
Louis groans and covers his eyes with his hand. “It‟s Benedick. You know that it‟s Benedick.”

  
Harry just smiles and rubs his nose in Louis‟ hair. “Bendy Dick.”

  
“Speaking of,” Zayn says, and Louis looks up. “I think your cast is waiting on you.”

  
Zayn jerks his chin toward the crowd behind them. The students are milling about the stage, hugging and congratulating each other but seeming unwilling to go anywhere without their director. Zayn‟s going to pretend he doesn‟t see some of them starting to notice Harry‟s hold on Louis.

  
“Shit, yeah, sorry,” Louis says, extricating himself from Harry at last. “I‟ve got to, sorry—”

  
“No worries,” Harry says. “Go congratulate your kids. They were great. I‟ll see you tomorrow, yeah? Same time, same place.”

  
“You‟re coming to tomorrow‟s show?” Louis says, his mouth falling slightly open. Harry just nods, and Louis‟ face breaks out in a smile so bright it‟s almost blinding. Harry smiles back, hands in his pockets, and it‟s like the play‟s back on, except now it‟s just Harry and Louis inside their own little isolated spotlight world.

  
“Well, I‟m not,” Zayn interjects, mostly to remind the two of them that he exists. “Amazing job, Lou, really well done. See you next week.” He looks over at Harry because he‟s starting to fear that he may have to actually physically drag him out of whatever gravitational pull Louis seems to have him trapped in. “Let‟s leave him to it, yeah?”  
Harry says a reluctant goodbye, and Zayn feels a little stupid for even trying to give him the You Break His Heart, I Break Your Legs speech when he‟s watching him watch Louis fade into the crowd of costumed bodies with that look on his face.  
  
“How d‟you feel about grabbing a pint?” Zayn says, elbowing Harry out of whatever train of thought he‟s currently off on. “Been a long week, I could use it. I‟m sure Niall will be up for it, too.”

  
“Yeah,” Harry says, finally pulling his eyes off of Louis‟ back. “Yeah, that sounds brilliant.”

  
Harry lets himself be steered away, and Zayn keeps an arm around his shoulders all the way out of the theatre, just in case.


	7. Seven

-L-

Louis knows that the holidays are supposed to be a time of rest in theory, but the days between the closing night of the play and Christmas Eve are a complete blur. When he‟s not striking the set, he‟s marking term papers. When he‟s not marking term papers, he‟s looking over exams. When he‟s not looking over exams, he‟s making his excuses to Harry, who he hasn‟t seen in days. And when he‟s not apologizing to Harry, he‟s preparing for the annual Louis Tomlinson Holiday Extravaganza.

  
The Extravanganza had taken place on Christmas Eve for the last three years, each time to greater and greater acclaim. It is an immovable date on the social calendar of everyone who matters in Louis‟ life, and with good reason: it‟s Louis‟ birthday. And it shall not pass uncelebrated, despite whatever lesser holidays might follow it.

  
It had started out as a simple Christmas/birthday party the first year that he‟d moved to Manchester, before he‟d had many friends. He‟d wanted to impress his new colleagues, so he‟d made an effort. Naturally, when Louis makes an effort, the results are legendary, and his party had been the talk of the teachers‟ lounge for weeks. Zayn may or may not have been photographed wearing a lampshade on his head and little else. Such are the foundations of friendship.

  
Unfortunately, his success had consequences. He had to out-do himself the next year, so suddenly instead of a few bowls of punch and eggnog there had been a full bar with Christmas-themed drinks. Niall had woken up on the roof of the building dressed as Father Christmas, and Louis had chalked up another victory. But then Christmas came around again, and he couldn‟t let everyone down, so he‟d moved all the furniture out of his flat and created a dance floor, complete with a red and green strobe light. It had been quite the hit, even with the policemen who arrived to break the party up.

  
And now it‟s time to do it all again, bigger and better. He has a reputation to maintain. Sadly, the fact that his life has descended into a state of disaster over the past month means that he‟s not as prepared as he usually is by now. By this time last year, he‟d already placed an order for ten dozen festive cakeballs, stockpiled five cases of beer in the snowdrift on his balcony, coated fifty yards of fake popcorn garland in gold glitter, and gotten Duchess up to a record nine minutes before she ripped her tiny elf hat off and tried to eat it. This time around he hasn‟t even got enough food in his fridge to feed himself lunch, much less accommodate the mobs of people coming to make merry. He needs to get his arse in gear.

  
Thankfully he sent out the invitations—tiny cards attached to glass Christmas ornaments with silk ribbon and nestled inside gold boxes on a bed of gold-flecked tissue paper, tasteful and fun, Christ he is good—before things got too hectic. But there‟s still the matter of food, drinks, entertainment, decorations, and every small detail in between. He ends up clutching two hundred red plastic cups to his chest in the party store, having a nervous breakdown over tablecloths and alcohol logistics, so he calls Zayn and Niall in as reinforcements. It pains him to admit defeat, but he can‟t do it alone this time.

  
“You know, you could call Harry,” Niall tells him one afternoon while he‟s hanging his eleventh string of lights along the ceiling of Louis‟ flat. “I‟m sure he‟d be willing to help.”  
“Not happening,” Louis says. He keeps his eyes trained on the table arrangement he‟s working on. Red, white, and silver is his palette this year. Inspired. He is arranging decorative pomegranates. Pomegranates will keep him sane.

  
He pretends like he doesn‟t notice Niall and Zayn exchanging a look across the living room.  
  
Harry keeps texting him throughout the week, offering to pick up anything he might need or come by to help him set up. Louis shrugs him off every time and insists that everything is under control even when it clearly is not, even when he almost breaks his leg falling off the ladder while getting a box of decorations down from the top of his cupboard. He feels shitty about it, but he‟s afraid that having Harry around will lead to him having to talk about feelings, which is just not exactly something he feels like handling right now. Or ever, really. So he keeps his head down and hopes Harry doesn‟t hate him for it.

  
They make it through seven days of scrambling, of cleaning his apartment from top to bottom, of searching for a place in Manchester that will rent him a chocolate fountain on such short notice, and by the night of 23rd he‟s finally, finally ready. The ashtrays are sparkling. The pudding is chilling in the fridge. The Christmas-themed shot glasses have been arranged on the counter with care, in hopes that people will get absolutely, monumentally sloshed.

  
Louis is finally curled up warm in his bed and starting to drift off when the buzz of his phone wakes him up. He squints at the light and thumbs through the lock screen to find one last text message from Harry waiting in his inbox.

  
_please at least let me bring something, i want to help xx_

  
Louis buries his face in his pillow. He is shagging the most genuinely good person on the planet outside of Zayn‟s fireman and probably some nuns somewhere. He is almost definitely a dick.

  
_bake something if u want_ , he texts back, then he shoves his phone under his pillow and wills himself to sleep.

  
He wakes up early the next day to nine birthday texts because, oh, right, it‟s his birthday. He managed to forget that part somewhere along the way. There‟s one from Harry, one from Zayn, one from Niall, one from his mum and two of his sisters, and the rest from his old  
  
Doncaster friends. He reads them as he steeps his tea. He is twenty-six years old.

  
“I am,” Louis says to his cat, “officially closer to thirty than twenty.”

  
Duchess stares at him, then knocks over a tin of plastic spoons in a way that looks deliberate.

  
He doesn‟t have much time to dwell on his age since his day is full of fielding phone calls and deliveries of hors d‟oeuvres, setting out plates and napkins, making a last minute run to the shop because he forgot he was out of his favourite kind of brandy. He spends most evening before the party meticulously ironing his red trousers and trying on three different pairs of braces before rejecting them all in favor of a fuzzy white jumper, because it‟s cold, damn it.

  
Niall arrives an hour before the party sporting a red and green snapback, and starts to set up the AV equipment. He and his endless playlist of Christmas remixes have always been in charge of the music for this particular party, but this year Louis has got him hooking up karaoke in addition to the dance floor.  
Zayn‟s the next one to arrive, the only time a year when he‟s not fashionably late and only because it‟s under threat of bodily harm from Louis.

  
“Excuse me,” Louis says, blocking the door with his body when Zayn tries to come inside. “Do I know you? Are you on the guest list?”

  
“Quit fucking around, Louis, it‟s cold out here,” Zayn huffs, teeth chattering.

  
“You look so much like my friend Zayn,” Louis says, “except he‟s the type of lad who always adheres to his friends‟ party dress codes, and your head is tragically lacking in any festive headwear. You are a complete stranger to me.”

Zayn glares at him, his face lit up in flashes by the multicolored lights on Louis‟ own hat, which is in the shape of a Christmas tree. He mumbles something Louis can‟t understand, half-muffled by his scarf and the turned-up collar of his coat.

  
“I‟m sorry,” Louis says, holding one hand up to his ear dramatically. “Didn‟t quite catch that.”

  
“I said, I spent a really long time on my hair!” Zayn says.

  
“Ah, yes!” Louis says as he steps aside. “Now I recognize you!” Zayn aims a kick at Louis‟ shin as he slips inside, but Louis dodges it. “Should I take this to mean that your man candy is coming tonight after all?”

  
“You know I would have told you if he‟d said so,” Zayn says. He shrugs his coat off, bumping his fist against Niall‟s as he passes on the way to dump it on Louis‟ bed. Louis has them all well-trained on the party coat protocol by now. “Last I heard it was still a maybe.”

  
“Well, mate,” Niall says, “if he doesn‟t turn up, we could always just set the tree on fire.”

  
“Ha-bloody-ha,” Zayn says. “Get me drunk enough and I just might.”

  
It‟s not long before people start pouring in, bottles of liquor and boxes of beer in hand. Niall‟s got the stereo playing something relatively relaxed, some acoustic cover of “O Holy Night,” but Louis knows he‟s just easing people into things before everyone gets drunk enough for him to switch on the strobe light. The turnout is good, as usual, and Louis is pleased to see that everyone other than Zayn is honoring the mandatory hat rule he put on the invitations.

  
It‟s always interesting to see all of his different worlds collide. Everyone mills about, talking and drinking and laughing, gradually filling in the walls of Louis‟s flat with faces from every part of his life, one of his old friends from uni chatting up his librarian in the corner, Zayn‟s TA doing shots with two of the girls from two doors over. He‟s just said hello to Stan, who came bounding in with a case of beer and two of the other Doncaster lads, when the door swings open again and he‟s almost hit in the face with a stack of boxes.

  
“Sorry!” says the person behind them, and if Louis didn‟t know that voice intimately by now, the curly hair peeking over the top of the boxes would have given Harry away immediately. “Sorry, can‟t really see where I‟m—oh, hello, birthday boy!”

  
Harry‟s stuck his head around the side of his armload of boxes to smile at Louis. He‟s wearing a pair of reindeer antlers with little jingle bells hanging from them, and there are snowflakes in his curls. It‟s the first time Louis has seen him in a week, and he‟s helpless to do anything but smile stupidly back at him, wishing he was maybe a little less tipsy for this.

  
“Nice hat,” Harry says happily. He leans in to kiss Louis on the cheek but misses, too busy trying to balance everything he‟s carrying, and lands somewhere between his cheekbone and his hair.

  
“What in the name of Christ is all that?” Louis says, closing the door behind Harry before too much snow comes inside.

  
“You told me to bake something,” Harry says. He starts making his way to the kitchen, the crowd parting like the Red Sea to let him through, and Louis follows. “I may have gotten a bit carried away.”

  
He sets the boxes down on the small amount of empty space left on Louis‟ kitchen table and starts unpacking them and, Jesus, Harry has outdone himself this time. The first four boxes are filled with a dozen cupcakes each, different flavors, all iced in varying shades of Christmas colors and covered in sprinkles. The last box is the tallest, and when Harry opens it, Louis feels his mouth drop open.

  
“Haz.”  
  
It‟s a cake, three layers by the looks of it, all thick off-white frosting and red trim. In the middle of it in red icing script are the words Happy Birthday, Louis! The i‟s are dotted with little smiley faces.  
Louis stares at it for a few seconds, then yanks Harry roughly into a hug by the waist, and Harry‟s laughing at him but he‟s buzzed and Harry made him a birthday cake and what else can he do?

  
“I didn‟t know if you already had one or not,” Harry says when Louis lets him go.

  
“I—” Louis begins, and then stops and starts again. “No, with everything else I‟d, I‟d completely forgotten.”

  
“Good, then,” Harry says, grinning. “Hope you like red velvet.”

  
Louis bumps Harry‟s shoulder with his own and picks up one of the boxes of cupcakes. “Come on, then, let‟s get these all out before I get too drunk to be trusted with things that could stain the carpet.”

  
And, well, honestly, the cupcakes really do not match his color palette at all. Part of him wants to die a little when he thinks of bright blue and green frosting and gold sprinkles in between his carefully chosen trays of peppermint bark and silver dusted sugar cookies, but the rest of him really doesn‟t care. The rest of him just wants to put them somewhere everyone can see.

  
“What‟re all these?” Harry says, pointing to the punch bowls set up on the counter.

  
“Ah, the Tomlinson Christmas special,” Louis says proudly. “The one on the right is eggnog with brandy, and then the one on the left on the warmers is hot chocolate with peppermint schnapps.”

  
“Impressive,” Harry says with a nod. “Wish I could drink tonight.”  
  
Louis pauses in the middle of arranging a cupcake pyramid to frown at him. “Why can‟t you?”

  
“Promised my mum I‟d be home when she woke up for Christmas morning,” Harry tells him. “I‟ve got my suitcase in the car already.”

  
“Hm, guess you get a pass this time, Styles,” Louis says, returning to his cupcakes. He tries not to think about the fact that Harry will be sober all night and capable of remembering everything Louis says or does while drunk. That sounds like a problem for Sober Louis, who vacated the premises about half an hour ago.

  
“Hey,” Harry says quietly, and when Louis looks up, Harry‟s face is soft and careful. “We‟re okay?”

  
Louis looks at Harry standing there on the other side of the desserts, two cupcakes in each hand, and he hates that he‟s made him feel like he has to ask. “Yeah, we‟re okay.”  
The first wave of older faculty members from the school and people who have to be home early starts to clear out around ten o‟clock, and Louis knows that means it‟s almost time for things to kick up a notch or five. When the head of the English department—the last person any of them could possibly get in trouble for getting drunk and disorderly in front of—finally leaves, Stan shuts the door behind her.

  
“All right,” Stan shouts, “let‟s do some fucking shots!”

  
A cheer goes up through the entire flat, and Niall hits the lights. One of his own creations comes blasting through the stereo system, a remixed Rosemary Clooney/LMFAO mashup he made last year and titled “Have Yourself a Merry Little Shot,” and someone starts passing out a round of vodka shots.

“Gird your loins, Harold,” Louis says, turning to grasp Harry by the shoulder. He‟s aware that his words are already starting to slur a little, but it‟s okay. It only serves to drive his point home, really.

  
“Consider them girded,” Harry says. He passes his shot along with a wink as if to remind Louis that he has already become well acquainted with Harry‟s loins. Louis elbows him in the side before climbing up onto one of the kitchen chairs, raising his shot glass aloft.

  
“Ahem,” he shouts over the crowd and the music. “Mr. Horan, if you would be so kind as to turn the music down a smidge.” Niall obliges, and everyone turns to face Louis, shots in hand.

  
“I‟d like to thank all of you lovely people for turning up tonight to celebrate the reason for the season: me.” Everyone laughs at that, and Louis throws up a finger to all of them, grinning. “Honestly, though, I don‟t know where I‟d be without you lot. So I‟d like to propose a toast! To myself, of course, and to all of you, to old friends and new,” he looks down and catches Harry‟s eye at that one, and Harry is grinning back at him, jingle bells gleaming under the lights, “to another year, and of course, to getting absolutely pissed and making tits of ourselves tonight with no regard to our personal safety, cheers!”

  
Everyone shouts their agreement and throws back their shots at once, and after a chorus of coughing and sputtering, Niall cranks the music back up.  
From his position, Louis is able to take a moment to assess the whole party at once. The makeshift dance floor is already packed, dozens of Christmas hats bobbing around in time to the music. Someone is lining up another batch of shots on the kitchen counter. Two people are drunkenly ravishing each other under the mistletoe. A promising start.  
The only one who doesn‟t seem to be having any fun is Zayn, who has spent the last thirty minutes sulking on his phone in the corner. Even his quiff looks a bit defeated, although that might just be from when Niall tried to force a Santa hat onto his head earlier.  
  
“Harry,” Louis yells over the din, “I think I may need you to help me down, as my motor skills are not what they were an hour ago.”

  
Harry laughs and offers his hand, which Louis accepts, allowing himself to be guided down by Harry‟s other hand on his hip. He‟s drunk and happy enough to give him a slap on the arse as thanks.

  
“Must go see about our brave little soldier of unrequited love,” Louis says, and Harry nods and nudges him off, turning around to pick up a conversation with Stan. Louis weaves his way through the crowd, stumbling a little before he reaches the chair shoved off to the wall by the bathroom where Zayn is pouting.

  
“Zayn,” Louis says, leaning down to peer into Zayn‟s face. “Zaaaaaayn. Stop tweeting sad song lyrics and come dance with me.”

  
“I‟m not—” Zayn snaps, but then he looks up and catches sight of something over Louis‟ shoulder and his entire face freezes in an expression of cartoon shock.

  
Louis spins around, expecting to see that someone‟s broken a window or stepped on his cat or snogged someone they shouldn‟t, but what he finds is Liam standing in the doorway of his flat and looking very, very out of place.

  
“My God,” Louis says, flattening a hand over his heart, “it‟s a Christmas miracle.”

  
He makes his way across the room, leaving Zayn paralyzed behind him like he‟s just seen the ghost of Christmas something or other. Louis catches a glimpse of Niall as he moves, and he‟s practically jumping up and down, looking extremely drunk and extremely excited, pointing jerkily to Liam with his mouth moving in something that looks like, “Are you seeing this shit?” Louis grins at him and gives him a double thumbs up. Tonight is going to be even more fun than he expected.  
  
“Hello!” Louis when he reaches Liam, a picture of yuletide cheer. Before the poor man even has a chance to respond, Louis yanks him into a hug. “Happy Christmas! So glad you could make it!”

  
Liam, to his credit, returns the hug with significantly less awkwardness than Louis was expecting. His coat is scratchy dark wool and very practical. When Louis pulls away, he‟s smiling genuinely at him, looking pleased just to have some new friends.

  
Before Liam has a chance to say anything, Zayn is suddenly right next to them, smiling in a way that is probably supposed to be winsome and casual but which Louis can easily recognize as the blind hysteria that it is. He hauls Liam into a hug of his own, made brave by alcohol and Louis having broken the ice already. Louis keeps close track of Liam‟s response, since he knows Zayn will grill him about it later. He closes his eyes when Zayn hugs him, still smiling, and doesn‟t even look alarmed when Zayn holds on a bit too long.

  
“Sorry I‟m so late,” Liam says when they break apart, and he really does look sincere about it. “Work was insane today, and then I got caught in the snow on the way over.”

  
“It‟s fine, it‟s totally fine, it‟s, you know, we‟re...” Zayn trails off and lapses into silence for a moment, just staring blissfully at Liam like he still can‟t believe he‟s actually there. Liam blinks back at him.

  
“Zayn,” Louis says pointedly, treading on his foot, “why don‟t you show our friend where he can put his coat?”

  
“Yes, right, of course,” Zayn says, springing back into action. He grabs Liam by the elbow and gives it a little tug. “This way, and then you‟ve got to see the food, we‟ve got loads.”

  
They disappear into the crowd, and Louis turns to find Harry staring at him from the kitchen, wide-eyed.

  
“Oh my God,” Harry mouths.  
  
“I know,” Louis mouths back.

  
After that it‟s honestly all a bit blurry for Louis. Someone hands him another shot, and then he has a glass of eggnog, and then another, and then some concoction of Niall‟s that tastes like cranberry sauce and Ireland and the promise of a hangover. He remembers somebody‟s shirt hitting him in the face as it was flung across the room and downing at least four cupcakes until his mouth is stained green. He remembers Niall signing some woman's boobs, which should be confusing but honestly doesn't throw him much at the time. He remembers watching Zayn spill his own plate of food everywhere while telling Liam something with a lot of hand gestures and then mostly staring in awe as Liam fetched a dishtowel and started cleaning it up for him. He remembers Niall coming over the sound system to tell everyone to shut the fuck up while Harry lit up the candles on the cake, and he remembers everyone singing him happy birthday. He doesn‟t remember what he wishes for, but he remembers looking at Harry while he does it.

  
He‟s leaned up against the kitchen counter, trying to get his vision straight for long enough to tell whether or not he needs to put out more food, when Stan sidles up next to him and throws an arm over his shoulders.

  
“So, mate,” he says, breath smelling of beer and meat pies, “anything new happening? You know, in your... life.”

  
Louis squints at him. “Forgive me if I‟m wrong, because I am a bit very drunk, but have we not already had this conversation tonight?”

  
“Yes, but you did not mention that strapping fellow,” Stan says, gesturing across the party. Harry is over by the stereo with Niall on his back, laughing as he looks through the karaoke song selections.

  
“Yeah, that‟s Harry,” Louis says.

“I know,” Stan says, rolling his eyes. “We‟ve met. He brought you a birthday cake.”

  
“Yes, he did,” Louis says. His strategy is to be as noncommittal as possible and then maybe the conversation will just end. Also, drink. He needs another drink.

  
“So, what‟s the story?” Stan presses. “I‟m sure you‟ve noticed he‟s quite fit.”

  
Louis can‟t help but smile ruefully down at his cup as he fills it with cider. “Quite.”

  
“He seems to like you a lot,” Stan says, and that gets Louis‟ attention.

  
“What d‟you mean?” Louis says, his head popping up. “Did he say something to you?”

  
“Aha!” Stan crows, looking triumphant. “So there‟s something happening there, eh?”

  
Louis shoves his shoulder into Stan‟s and pulls a face that he intends to be disdain, but he‟s so drunk that God only knows what it ends up looking like. “All right, yes. I‟m shagging him, but it‟s not a big deal or anything. We‟re friends.”

  
Stan raises his eyebrows. “Really? Not a big deal? Because I can‟t remember the last time you were actually friends with someone you shagged.”

  
Louis gives him a proper glare for that one.  
  
“Look, I‟m just, you know,” Stan says, withdrawing his arm and returning to his beer. “I don‟t want to make things awkward if you‟re, whatever. You just look really happy, Lou. It‟s nice.”

  
He gives Louis a shrugging smile and fades back into the party, and Louis stares after him for a moment before draining half his cup of cider in one go.

  
The cider does the trick. He‟s able to enjoy the rest of the night without analyzing what Stan said, too busy evading a lap dance from his veterinary assistant and shimmying at half of the maths department to the sounds of dubstep Bing Crosby. Somewhere off the the side Zayn is still talking to Liam, casually trying to edge them toward the mistletoe only to have all his work undone every time Liam steps politely out of the way to let somebody through and moves them backwards two feet. There‟s too much to laugh at for Louis to bother worrying about anything else at the moment. He doesn‟t even have a fit when Harry catches and holds his eyes across the dance floor when “All I Want For Christmas is You” comes on, shaking his hips over to Louis, singing the ooh, baby right in his ear.

  
It‟s around this time that the drunken karaoke starts up and, Jesus, it was worth sweet talking Niall into borrowing all the equipment from school just to see Harry gyrating to “Santa Baby,” all languid hips and raspy voice and hotter than it has any right to be when he‟s not even being serious about it.

  
Somewhere around 2 a.m., Niall and Zayn decide to go out onto the balcony for a smoke at the same time. Harry drags Louis outside with them despite his protests of how bollocks-freezing cold it is out there, and Liam follows them, presumably because the four of them are the only people he actually knows at this party.  
It‟s actually kind of nice once they‟re all out there, crammed into the small space of Louis‟ balcony. Niall flops into one of Louis‟ rickety chairs with his beer while Louis settles into the other, knees gathered up to his chin against the cold. Zayn‟s leaning up against the railing, too drunk to think about posing for Liam, which looks better on him anyway, all loose limbs and hazy eyes.

  
Harry crowds up behind Louis‟ chair. “You cold?”

  
“A bit, yeah,” Louis says through the chattering of his teeth. Next thing he knows, Harry‟s leaning down and wrapping his arms around Louis‟ shoulders and chest, pressing his body heat into him.

  
“This okay?” Harry says in his ear, and Louis just blames the alcohol for the fact that all he can do is nod and lean back into him. Zayn raises his eyebrows at them, and Louis mentally wills him to go fuck himself.

  
Louis looks around him, at Niall all sprawled out in his chair, at Zayn lighting one up, at Liam looking content on the ground with his back against the balcony door, at the lights in the distance and the snow falling down and the steam of his breath mixing with Harry‟s, and it just. It feels good, the five of them.  
Louis is possibly too drunk.

  
“Nice song choice, Harry,” Zayn slurs, exhaling a stream of smoke. “Be really impressed if you can get this one up there, though.” He points to Louis with his cigarette, and Louis sticks his tongue out at him.

  
“D‟you think he would?” Harry says, perking up, and no, no, nope.

  
“No, he would not,” Louis says.

  
“It‟d be brilliant, though!” Harry says, leaning back and turning his head a little to look at Louis. It‟s really not fair how his eyes are sparkling in the flashing lights of Louis‟ stupid hat. Once again, Louis only has himself to blame. “I never get to see you perform, only shout at other people while they do.”  
  
Louis ignores Harry, shifting his attention back to Zayn, who is much easier to resist. “Why don‟t you get up there, Malik? You were born for the stage. Stripper with a heart of gold, that‟s what you are.”

  
“And a liver of iron,” Zayn says.

  
“Bullshit,” Niall says, laughing out a cloud of smoke. “I‟ve got pictures of you naked in a pond throwing up on a duck.”

  
“Poor duck,” Liam chimes in, looking concerned. “He‟s just going about doing duck things, and then all of the sudden—”

  
“Vomit tsunami,” Louis supplies.

  
Liam nods sagely. “Tsu-vom-i.”

  
It‟s so ridiculous and so deadpan that it startles a laugh out of all of them, filling up the balcony and echoing off the roof of the next building.

  
“We‟re keeping him,” Louis says, pointing an unsteady finger at Liam, and it‟s impossible to tell who looks more pleased by this turn of events, Liam or Zayn.

  
“If we‟re keeping him, he should get a vote in whether or not you sing for us,” Harry says.

  
“There‟s not a vote,” Louis says. “This isn‟t a democracy. This is a party dictatorship, and I am the dictator.”

  
“You‟ve got one of those syllables right,” Niall says. “Liam, vote.”

  
“Well, I mean,” Liam says, “only if he wants to.”

“Oh, he wants to,” Zayn says, cutting off Louis‟ protests.

  
“He really, really does,” Niall adds, and Louis takes back every nice thing he has ever said about either of them.

  
Liam smiles. “Then I vote yes.”

  
“I think that makes it unanimous,” Niall says. He stubs out his cigarette on the arm of his chair and flicks the butt off the balcony. “Right, Harry?”

  
“Unanimous,” Harry confirms.

  
“Unfortunately this vote means nothing because I do not recognize the authority of the proletariat,” Louis says. He wonders faintly if taking too many vodka shots has made him slightly Communist. Or is it the other way around? Who was the proletariat again? Alcohol is bad.

  
“Too bad,” Zayn says. “Bolshevik karaoke time.”

  
It‟s four against one now and Louis doesn‟t stand a chance, no matter how much he tries to tell them that he is definitely too drunk for this. Harry manages to manhandle him out of his chair, and then Niall and Zayn have him under the armpits. A couple of very disorienting minutes later, Harry has dragged out his coffee table for a stage and Zayn is introducing him as “the Illustrious, Luscious Louis Tomlinson,” and then Louis is holding a microphone in front of the entire party while the first notes of “Jingle Bell Rock” flood the room.

  
Fine. If he‟s going to be publicly humiliated, he is damn well going to do it with style. He puts one hand on his hip, flips his hair, and calls up every bit of that old stage presence he hasn‟t used in years.

  
And maybe it‟s just because he‟s drunk, or he‟s the host, or it‟s his birthday, but the crowd goes wild. He belts it out with as much as he‟s got left in him, sashaying up and down the length of the table, free hand flailing through the air. Niall pretends to faint into Zayn‟s arms when Louis blows him a kiss. Louis forgot how much he loves this, how natural it feels to stand up in front of an audience and sing. He never realised how much he‟s been missing this feeling.

  
It‟s been years since Louis got up in front of anybody and sang other than demonstrating parts to his students, years since he lit up a crowd, years since he felt that high of performing. He watches Stan laughing with some of the Doncaster girls and the German teacher dancing with two of his uni friends and he lets himself soak in the energy of the crowd and the sound of the music, and it‟s just a stupid Christmas song but he lets himself get carried away.

  
The flat erupts into applause when the song is over, and Louis takes an elaborate bow, almost falling off the coffee table as he does. Harry‟s there to catch him around the waist and set him on the floor, laughing so hard he‟s almost in tears, and Louis wants to kiss him right then and there but he doesn‟t.

  
It seems that Louis‟ performance is the dramatic climax of the party, because it‟s not long after that before people start popping by to slap him on the back and tell him goodbye. The ones who‟ve had less to drink or given themselves time to sober up head out to brave the snow, while the rest start gathering up their coats and calling cabs. He bids Stan farewell with a promise to return his missing trousers when he gets back to Doncaster and watches Zayn hug Liam goodbye when he gets called in to the firehouse to handle a surplus of Christmas tree catastrophes. Soon it‟s down to twenty, then ten, then it‟s 3 a.m. and Louis is bundling Zayn into a cab, paying the cabbie in advance and tuning out Zayn‟s drunken mumbling.

  
“Destiny,” he says for the millionth time in the last five minutes. “Christmas destiny. Destimas.”

  
“Sleep it off, mate,” Louis says, and Zayn just smiles dreamily at him before the door shuts and the cab is off down the street.

  
  
He‟s swaying on his feet as he makes his way back up the snowy path to his flat. God, how long has it been since he‟s done this, taken care of the drunks while half-wasted himself? University-era Louis would be ashamed.

  
He staggers back up the stairs and into his flat, and he nearly groans out loud when he sees there‟s someone else still there, wandering around the living room. The sound catches in his throat, though, when he sees that it‟s Harry making his way through the flat with a bin bag, collecting trash.

  
“You‟re—hi. You‟re here,” Louis manages, his tongue thick in his mouth. He leans heavily against the door. Fuck. He is never drinking anything Niall mixes ever again.  
“Well spotted, Lou,” Harry says with a smile. “Figured you could use some help with all of this.” He gestures to the wreckage of Louis‟ flat. It‟s worse than last year‟s party, worse than he and Harry‟s sex marathon. There appears to be red velvet cake smeared all over one of the cushions of his couch. Well, it‟s either that or blood. God, please let it be cake.

  
Louis does groan now, sliding down the door onto his welcome mat. “God, I‟m going to be up all night dealing with this. And I‟ve got to drive to my mum‟s tomorrow.” He lets his head fall back against the door with a thud. “Why do I socialize? Why don‟t I just stay in bed with my cat?”

  
“The eternal question,” Harry says, walking over and extending a hand. Louis takes it and lets Harry haul him upright. The sudden movement has him dizzy, and he‟s thankful for Harry‟s steadying hands on his waist once again. “I can stay and help, don‟t worry.”

  
Louis blinks at him, and Harry just smiles and goes back to tidying up. Louis meanders blindly over to the sink and tries to start washing dishes, but turns back to Harry distractedly. “You‟ve got to drive to your parents‟ too, though.”  
  
Harry shrugs, pulling down some of the lights. “It‟s not that long a drive, I can stay an hour or two longer.” He looks at Louis, amused. “It‟s really fine, Lou.”  
Louis looks down into the sink in confusion, because what does he want?

  
He manages to wash a total of two glasses, his mind swimming, before he turns back to Harry. He probably shouldn‟t press his luck here, but he just...does not understand. “I‟m not,” he says, swallowing dryly. “I can‟t fuck you tonight.”

  
Harry lets out a short laugh that sounds a little horrified, turning away from where he‟s taking down the mistletoe. He pauses before he speaks again, like he‟s waiting to see if Louis was joking.

  
“Christ, Louis, tell me how you really feel,” Harry says, apparently realising that he‟s not. Louis just stares back, leaning hard on the counter. “Lou. Jesus. I know that you, that we aren‟t going to have sex tonight. That‟s not why I came tonight, and even if it was, you‟re drunk, so.” He lets out a long breath, his face soft, and no one should be allowed to look that serious while wearing reindeer antlers. “I‟m doing this „cause I want to, yeah?”

  
Louis looks at him for a long time, but he doesn‟t make any more sense.

  
“You‟re weird,” he says finally.

  
Laughing, Harry throws the mistletoe at him, hitting Louis square in the chest. “You‟re one to talk,” he says, and resumes cleaning.

  
Shaking his head like a wet dog, Louis gives up on making sense of the situation and commits what brainpower he has to taking his flat from “portal to the underworld” to “general squalor.” Harry puts something soft and gentle on his iPod and they make their way from room to room in silence, improving things as they go.

  
It feels like Harry is everywhere over the next hour, taking care of things while Louis sobers up. When Louis slips on a puddle of eggnog, Harry catches him with a laugh. When Duchess knocks over the empty bowl of cider, Harry is there with a broom to sweep up the pieces. When Louis goes back to doing dishes, Harry is behind him with a hand on his waist, passing him a glass full of water.

  
“Don‟t want to drive with a hangover,” he says, dropping his chin onto Louis‟ shoulder.

  
Louis drains the glass in a few long swallows, incredibly conscious of the way Harry‟s head turns, his lips grazing slightly over his neck. “Thanks,” Louis says, “I think I‟m going to be all right now, nothing like manual labor to shake off a buzz.”

  
“Good,” Harry says, smiling against him and squeezing his hip before he moves away. “Shouldn‟t take more than another half-hour before this place is in decent enough shape for you to catch a few hours of sleep.”

  
Louis turns around, leaning against the sink and watching Harry putter around his flat happily, and does his best to strangle whatever feeling is creeping through him.  
“You know what?” he says suddenly. “It‟s fine, I think I‟m just going to go to bed.”

  
Harry pauses, halfway through wiping down the kitchen table. “You sure? I don‟t want you to miss your mum.”

  
“Yeah, it‟ll be fine,” Louis says. “I can do the small stuff when I get back.”  
  
“All right,” Harry says, fiddling with his jacket for a moment before pulling it from the back of a chair and shrugging it on. “If you‟re sure.”

  
“I‟m sure,” Louis says with a helpless smile. And then, because he can‟t stop himself, “I‟ll walk you down to your car.”

  
He snags his scarf and coat off the hook but doesn‟t bother doing up any of his buttons before following Harry outside.

  
The snow has slowed to a gentle fall by now, drifting onto Louis‟ porch and gathering on the railings. Harry insists on going down the stairs in front of him because “alcohol plus frozen steps equals death” and he seems to think himself an adequate safety net. When they get to the bottom he pulls Louis up against him with one arm, and Louis lets him, pliant against the warmth of Harry‟s side. It‟s quiet outside except for the light jingling of Harry‟s antlers and their own crunching footsteps in the snow.

  
“You were really good, with the whole karaoke thing tonight,” Harry says. He bumps one hip against Louis‟, and Louis stares down at their feet disappearing in and out of the snow. “I like seeing you like that.”

  
Something in Louis‟ stomach squirms. He writes it off as the after effects of the half dozen cupcakes and questionable beverages, but it makes him restless all the same. On some mad impulse he ducks out from under Harry‟s arm and half-stumbles into a snowbank, plunging his hands into the snow.

  
“Lou, what‟re you—”

  
Harry‟s words are cut off by the snowball that pegs him right in the side of the head.

  
“Yes!” Louis shouts, not caring about his neighbors and the fact that it‟s almost 4 a.m. Harry is gaping at him, a laugh playing on his lips. “The Tommo strikes again!”  
  
“The only thing saving you from being shoved in a snowbank right now,” Harry tells him, shaking his hair out, “is the fact that you are drunk and I don‟t think you could get back up.”

  
“I am extremely spry in my old age,” Louis tells him, slipping ahead. “You underestimate me.”

  
“I guess so,” Harry says.

  
They‟re at Harry‟s car now. Louis is standing between Harry and the door, his body betraying the fact that he really doesn‟t want Harry to go.

  
“I‟m glad you liked your cake,” Harry says. He‟s smiling as he leans against Louis, gently pressing him into the side of the car.

  
“I‟m glad you came tonight,” Louis tells him, and oh, he hates how alcohol does this even when it‟s fading out of his system, makes him honest and unguarded, but he can‟t stop his mouth. “Thank you for staying.”

  
Harry just smiles wider, and then he wraps the end of Louis‟ scarf around one hand and pulls him in for their first kiss in two weeks.

  
It‟s as gentle as Harry‟s weight against him, light enough that Louis knows Harry meant what he said about not pushing him when he‟s been drinking. Harry‟s lips are a little bitten by the chill, but when he parts them he tastes like peppermint and cake and his mouth is like the lights inside of Louis‟ flat, soft and warm and intimate. Louis sinks his fingers into Harry‟s curls, and Harry makes a noise at the cold hands against his scalp but doesn‟t let go.

  
They‟ve done a fair amount of kissing by now, but Louis wouldn‟t describe any of it as slow or sweet. Every time it was some pressing force, the means to an end, the warm-up act before the main event. This time is different, though. One of Harry‟s hands slides up under Louis‟  
  
jumper, but there‟s nothing insistent about it, just Harry trying to be closer to him. For the first time, they kiss just for the hell of it. And, God, for once, Louis just lets himself have it.

  
Then Louis‟ brain and his mouth line up long enough for him to realise that what Harry is humming into his mouth is “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen,” and he has to break off to laugh at that, because, seriously.

  
For a moment they‟re just standing there, and Harry is so close and he‟s laughing and there‟s snow in his eyelashes and it‟s actually overwhelming how much Louis likes this person. Not just his mouth and his body but all of him, every single part, the dumb jokes and the eager hands and the sprawling smile and the easy way about him that makes Louis want to loosen his grip a little bit, the grass stains on his jeans and the way he still smells like Louis‟ dish soap.

  
“Happy birthday,” Harry says, thumbing the pattern of Louis‟ scarf.

  
“Happy Christmas,” Louis says back.

  
“Happy Christmas,” Harry agrees.

  
Harry gives him one last smiling kiss, and Louis finally convinces his legs to move the rest of him out of the way so Harry can slide into his car. He stands on the curb, knee-deep in snow, watching Harry drive away until his tail lights blink out around the corner.

  
Louis isn‟t going to think about it. He‟s not. He‟s not going to think about hands on his waist or sweet cream frosting on his tongue or the place where all the small bones in Harry‟s wrist come together. He‟s not going to let this spread.

  
“No,” he says to the feeling pulling at his ribs. “Nope.” He takes the stairs one step at a time and doesn‟t, doesn‟t, doesn‟t think about it.

He‟s dropping his coat on the floor and ready to collapse into bed when he sees the package sitting on the kitchen table. The box is thin and bit bigger than a piece of paper, and when he turns it over in his hands he can see that it‟s wrapped up in pages torn out of magazines, all different bright colors and clashing patterns. He doesn‟t need a card to know it‟s from Harry.

  
Oh, God.

  
Louis‟ hands fumble with the wrapping until he manages to get it all off, mind racing ahead of him to what Harry would have gotten him and wondering how he snuck it in without Louis noticing, if he stuck it under the cake box or if he‟s actually Father Christmas. Underneath the wrapping is a thin, unremarkable cardboard box, and he opens one end and tilts.

  
Out slides a nicely matted print of a photograph, and Louis‟ breath goes out when he realises what it is.

  
He remembers a rehearsal about a month ago, some cold, dry evening in November. His male lead was out sick, and he had promoted one of the boys in the chorus to understudy so that somebody could mark his place in the blocking. He was sitting a few rows back in the audience, calling out lines and taking notes in his copy of the script. Niall was working out the kinks for the lighting cues that day, and the set was still only halfway constructed. He remembers that Harry was wearing a blue shirt, but he doesn‟t know how he forgot about the camera.

  
The photograph is from that rehearsal, taken from a seat just behind Louis. The stage in the background is washed in blues, reds, pinks, yellows, beams of light pouring from all different angles, crossing over each other at random. The spotlight is off, so the bodies on the stage are almost just silhouettes in motion. There‟s the whip of a skirt caught in mid-turn, a tall figure with its arms extended, two shapes bent toward each other at stage left. Behind them, the skeleton of the set makes sharp lines and broken shapes against the white backdrop.  
  
In the foreground is Louis, just a sliver of his face as seen from behind, the light catching on the top of his cheekbone and the ends of his hair. His hands are in the air in front of him, gesturing as he explains something to one of the actors, and he can see ink stains on his knuckles. He can see for the first time the way he looks when he‟s directing, the set of his shoulders, the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

  
It‟s his kids, his work, distilled into an image and made beautiful. And Harry did it.

  
He looks down at the table because he really, really needs to look at anything that is not this picture right now, and his eyes fall on a tiny piece of paper. It must have slid out with the print without him noticing it. He can see Harry‟s handwriting on it.

  
_Lou,_   
_So you don‟t forget what you look like to the rest of us_   
_Happy birthday!!! xxx_   
_Haz_

  
Louis drops into a chair.

  
“Happy Christmas, Louis Tomlinson,” he says. “You are fucked.”


	8. Eight

-Z-

Zayn idly swirls the beer in his glass, distressed to see so much of it left. Beer isn‟t really his drink, not for a real night out, but Niall had bought a round of pints and it would be rude not to finish. Anyway, it‟s just not on to leave a drink unfinished on New Year‟s.

  
He tips the glass back and drains the pint with a grimace, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and looking around the bar. It‟s a pretty good turnout, though if he‟s honest most of these people are Niall‟s friends, not his. He‟s not complaining, though. He could have gone to another friend‟s party, but from what he remembers from years past those parties always turn into pretty people scrambling for hook-ups, and he‟s not really looking for that this year. Getting quietly drunk in the corner of a bar full of people who don‟t actively bother him actually sounds pretty great.

  
Of course, in a perfect world he‟d be wherever Liam was, but after his ridiculous performance on Christmas Zayn isn‟t sure he can face Liam for a few more weeks. God, how obvious had he been with the mistletoe? Had Liam noticed? There was no way he hadn‟t noticed. Why isn‟t he drunk yet?

  
Zayn walks over to the bar and orders a vodka tonic, ignoring the bartender‟s once-over. God bless Niall‟s friends and their open bar. Liam is probably busy, anyway. He‟s probably out doing something fun and not thinking about Zayn at all. The bartender slides his drink to him, and Zayn lifts it to his lips immediately as he walks back to his table, ignoring the napkin with the phone number on it. Liam is probably at some party with his hot firefighter friends, being hot.  
  
They‟re probably dancing in a big group of sweaty, shirtless, firefighting hotness that is inaccessible to people who ineffectively hit on people at Christmas parties. Maybe they‟re wearing the fireman hats. Wow, this drink is strong.

  
Back at his table of perpetual malaise, Zayn pulls out his phone and picks Louis‟ name out of his contact list. Louis is at his mum‟s house, as he always is for New Year‟s. God bless Louis. No one else makes him feel comparatively better about being a miserable bastard.

  
_w/o u here who‟s gunna b my consolation midnight kiss?? aha :) xx_

  
It only takes a few moments for Louis to text back, reassuring Zayn that he is not the saddest sack in the greater Manchester area.

  
_give you ten quid if you kiss niall. not kidding._

  
Zayn throws his head back and laughs, typing out his answer.

  
_make it twenty and ur on :P xoxo_

 

  
Maybe this night could still be fun after all.

 

-L-

 

It‟s hard to keep in touch with Harry when he‟s stuck inside a small house with his mum and four nosy sisters, all of whom are hellbent on figuring out what—or whom—Louis is hiding from them. He sticks to texts for the first few days before he‟s forced to admit to himself that seeing Harry‟s bad jokes in pixel letters just makes him miss the sound of Harry‟s dumb voice saying them honey-slow in his ear. He can only call him in the middle of the night or at odd hours of the day when the girls are busy and his mum is at work, unless he actually gets in his car and drives somewhere, and Louis refuses to do that. He‟s trying to keep this thing in check, and lurking in car parks to talk to Harry on the phone does not exactly fall under the heading of Rational Behavior.

  
The snow hasn‟t come to Doncaster for a few weeks, so the grass is dry enough that Louis can take Harry‟s late night calls in the back garden without waking anyone up. He bundles up and drags his duvet down the stairs and lies on his back on the ground, listening to Harry ramble on and on about football and his family and which Rolling Stones album is best.

  
“What‟re you gonna do when you get back?” Louis asks one night, coat pulled tight around him as he stares up at the stars.

  
“Wait for you to get back so I can kiss you again,” Harry says on the other end of the line, and Louis rolls onto his stomach and buries his face in the grass.

  
He knows that it‟d be easier to just leave for Manchester early since he knows that Harry will be getting back a couple of days ahead of school, but he makes himself stay in Doncaster for the full hols. He doesn‟t get to see his family or his Doncaster friends as often as he‟d like, and he can‟t justify leaving all that to see Harry. This is where he needs to be, sandwiched in between two of his sisters on the sofa in the family living room. Their mum‟s messing about in the kitchen, fixing herself another Shirley Temple, and the twins are asleep, thank God. The room gets a bit crowded when the entire Tomlinson clan tries to watch telly, even if it is a New Year‟s tradition.

  
“There‟s still time to make it to the fireworks before midnight if we leave now,” Lottie says.

  
“If you want to go, you should go,” Louis says, before taking a long sip out of the champagne bottle he‟s got cradled in his lap. “I, however, am going to stay here, on this sofa, where it is comfy and there are no loud noises. They say you spend the whole year doing what you were doing at midnight, yes? Well, I plan to spend this year lazy and tipsy.”  
  
Lottie makes a grab for the bottle, but Louis has cat-like reflexes when it comes to alcohol and moves it out of her reach. “Hey now, no champagne for children,” he says.  
“I‟m eighteen now, Louis, I‟m not a child,” she says, rolling her eyes. Fizzy giggles.

  
“Are you?” Louis asks jokingly. “Hmm, I‟m going to have to write someone a strongly-worded letter about that, see if something can‟t be done.” Lottie pokes him in the side, he pokes back, and by the time their mum comes back in all three of them are engaged in a no-holds-barred tickle war.

  
Louis is attempting to explain to her that he is the victim of unchecked sisterly imperialism when his mobile goes off. When he sees who it is, he scrambles upright. “I‟m sorry, it‟s—I‟ve got to get this, hold on,” he says, heading for the back door.

  
“It‟s five minutes to midnight, Louis!” his mum shouts after him, but he‟s already on the back patio.

  
“Hi, Hazza,” he says, sitting down on the patio swing.

  
“Louis!” Harry shouts down the line, and Louis can tell in just those two syllables that he‟s pissed off his arse. “Louis, Louis, Louis. Loo-oo-ouis. It‟s almost midnight!” Louis can hear loud voices and clinking glasses.

  
“I know, Haz,” Louis responds, rubbing his hands over his arms. He definitely should have grabbed a coat on his way outside, but it‟s too late for that now. “You at a party?” he asks.

  
“Yeah, but,” and now Harry whispers dramatically, “S‟not as good as yours was, Lou, so don‟t worry.” He ends the sentence with a giggle. “Your party was brilliant. You are brilliant!” He heaves a drunken sigh. “Miss you.”

Before Louis can respond, or figure out how to, he hears a voice in the background. Who‟re you talking to, Harry? says a woman. Harry‟s response is a muffled It‟s Louis, Gemma, piss off.

  
“Is that your sister?” Louis asks, curious.

  
“Yeah, d‟you want to talk to her? Gemma!” he shouts, and Louis winces, holding the phone away from his ear. “Gemma! Louis wants to talk to you! I don‟t know why, I‟m much more interesting.” The phone passes between them, and a clear female voice comes down the line.

  
“Hello, Louis, this is Gemma, Harry‟s sister.”

  
Louis smiles, pleased to have the chance to sneak a peek at Harry‟s real life. “Hello, Gemma, very nice to meet you.”

  
She hitches a laugh, saying, “A pleasure, I‟m sure.” Louis has never seen a picture of her, but he‟s imagining a woman his age with Harry‟s mouth and, judging by her tone, his tendency towards mischief. “So, what have you done exactly to make my brother completely lose his head over you? Are you that good in—” she starts to ask, but suddenly the sound is muffled and Louis can barely make out the sound of shushing.

  
“Louis?” Harry‟s voice comes through. “You there? Loui-i-is?”

  
Louis can‟t help but laugh at how eager he sounds. What a friendly drunk. “Yeah, Haz, I‟m here,” he says, pushing his feet against the porch so the swing starts to sway. “It‟s almost midnight, you sure you want to be on the phone?”

  
“Yes,” Harry says, with slurred resolution. “I‟m sure.”

  
“Nobody to kiss at midnight?” Louis asks, feeling reckless.  
  
Harry giggles again. “No one here is anywhere near as fit as you, so,” he says, sighing.

  
Louis grins against the phone. “A common tragedy. Sorry if I‟ve set the bar too high.”

  
“You should be, you wanker,” Harry says with what can only be affection, and Louis is too buzzed to be even want to contain the warmth he feels curling out of his chest. He doesn‟t answer for a moment, just sits gliding back and forth on the swing, knowing that Harry‟s on the other end of the line.

  
“Hazza—” he starts finally, but is interrupted by a series of loud bangs and whistles. He stands and walks to the edge of the patio, and if he leans out, he can just see the edge of some of the fireworks over the treeline. On the other end of the phone he can hear shouting and singing. Someone‟s started up “Auld Lang Syne.”

  
“Happy New Year, Hazza,” he says, watching the sky light up. “I miss you, too.”

  
Harry lets out a whooping laugh. “Happy New Year, Lou,” he says, and hangs up.

  
When Louis walks back into the living room, his mum and sisters all fix him with the same look, their eyebrows rising. Even Duchess is staring at him accusingly from her basket in the corner. Families are creepy.

  
“Well, you missed midnight, so you're terrible,” Fizzy says, her arms crossed. She looks pleased about being able to tell him off, though, so she probably isn‟t really upset.  
“Sorry,” Louis says, dragging the word out, unable to keep a smile off his face.  
  
His mum narrows her eyes, examining him, but then they fly open in shock. “Who was that on the phone?” she says in a knowing voice, and nope, this conversation is not happening.

  
“You know, I think I‟m just going to turn in,” Louis says, heading for the stairs. If he doesn‟t make eye contact, maybe she‟ll let it go.

  
“Are you blushing?” she says.

  
“It‟s cold out!” Louis says, taking the steps at double time.

  
“You‟re not getting out of this that easily!” she shouts at his retreating back.

  
“Night mum, night girls,” he sing-songs back, so close to freedom.

  
“I‟ll get it out of you eventually,” she calls after him, defeated, and the sad thing is she‟s probably right.

  
As he closes the door to the bathroom, he feels his phone vibrate and pulls it out to see a picture message from Zayn. He has to zoom in and turn the phone upside down, but eventually he realises that he‟s looking at a self-taken image of Zayn planting a kiss on a very surprised Niall.

  
When he closes the picture, he sees he has two texts. He opens the one from Zayn first.

  
_u owe me 20 quidddddd hapyyp new years lou i loev u :DDD xxxx_

  
Snickering, he closes it and opens the next text, which is from Niall.

_why_

.........

It‟s the beginning of a new term, and Louis‟ got a lot on his plate already. He put off working on lesson plans the whole holiday, still so drained from the last week of the term that he couldn‟t even be arsed to look at his calendar, and now he‟s got to catch up. He‟ll be able to bluff his way through the first day of classes, but he really needs to sit down and figure out what the hell he‟s doing, because things are going to get busy for him again soon.

  
He‟s holding auditions for the spring musical in a week, having settled on Grease this year. It‟s the one he‟s been saving ever since he started directing, since it‟s his very favorite and he doesn‟t want to waste his one chance to do it right, but for some reason he feels like this is the year. He posted flyers and handed out audition packets before the Christmas holidays to give the kids enough time to rehearse on their own, but he‟s still got several loose ends to tie up before tryouts. Posting audition sign-up sheets, making copies of scripts, reserving the theatre—all of it needs to be done by the end of the week.

  
So really, between all of that, there‟s no reason for him to feel so disappointed when he gets a text from Harry on Monday morning saying that he won‟t be coming around today because he‟s meeting with a professor and maybe he‟ll catch him after practice. Louis‟ got enough happening that he should be grateful to have his free period to himself. But the fact of the matter is, he hasn‟t seen Harry in over a week, and somewhere between prop furniture and snow and champagne and 2 a.m. phone calls under a blanket in the back garden, that became unacceptable. It‟s all he can think about all day, the fact that they‟re in the same city again and the space between them is getting smaller by the minute.

  
Finally five o‟clock rolls around and he‟s done with all his work for the day, sign-up sheets posted and lesson plans tucked inside his desk drawer. He knows he could take the front exit to the carpark and never pass the football pitch. He‟d get to his car faster, even. He could go home and put on the telly and spend the evening with his cat and a glass of wine, safe in his flat where nobody is making anybody feel anything. It would be so easy.

  
So easy, but also impossible. As he locks up his classroom, he knows it‟s a foregone conclusion. His feet are already carrying him toward the back exit without him ever telling them to. Rude.

  
The team‟s in their last few minutes of practice by the time Louis gets out there. Mondays, Louis‟ learned by now, are just for drills, so the head coach lets Harry run practice by himself. Louis leans up against the fence and watches for a moment as Harry directs the boys up and down the pitch.

  
He looks just how Louis remembers him, tall and slim and gorgeous and all the maddening things he hasn‟t been able to stop thinking about since the first time they kissed. It had been easier to put those things out of his mind when he was busy with work or frantic party planning, but the week in Doncaster, every idle moment had been torture—the memory of Harry‟s lower lip dragging up his chest, the size of Harry‟s hands, every detail on repeat in his head and nothing he could do about it. Even from a distance, seeing Harry in real life now feels like a not-unpleasant punch to the gut.

  
He feels suddenly creepy, standing there thinking about Harry‟s idiot lips and realising that to any passers-by he probably looks like he‟s ogling the football team. Casting about desperately, he spots the stands and quickly ducks underneath them, grimacing when he realises how much dirt is going to get on his trousers as he sits down.

  
So. This is happening. He is a grown man hiding in the dirt under the stands, waiting for his friend-with-whom-shagging-happens to get out of football practice. Okay.

  
Louis sits quietly, stewing his own pathetic thoughts and growing increasingly panicked over the cost of getting his trousers dry cleaned as he stares at the changing room door, just visible over one of the crossbeams that are hiding him. He‟s there for so long that he almost gives up and goes home, which would probably be the wisest course of action, but then the final whistle finally blows and the boys finally file into the changing room. Louis gives them enough time that even the last stragglers are gone before he emerges from his foxhole of shame and future laundry nightmares. He pauses only to dust himself off briefly and spare a thought to wonder if he‟s lost complete control of his life before pulling the door open and stepping inside.

  
Harry‟s there, alone with his bag of footballs, right in front of him and real. A quick check around him confirms that they‟re alone, and the look in Harry‟s eyes is worth a hundred dry-cleaning bills.

  
“Hi,” Louis says.

  
“Hi,” Harry says, smiling.

  
“Hi,” Louis says, smiling back.

  
“Said that already,” Harry points out mildly. Louis doesn‟t particularly care.

  
They stand there for a minute, just the two of them alone in the changing room, smiling at each other, Louis still sporting a fine layer of dust and Harry looking like six feet of sunshine. Harry‟s standing with his arms folded across his chest and his back against the lockers, and Louis feels like his bones are made of paper.

  
“Get over here,” Harry says at last, and that‟s all it takes, Louis is crossing the room in an instant.

  
When he finally leans up and kisses Harry, it‟s every bit of quiet anticipation since Christmas all ringing through him at once, lifting him up onto his toes. His shoulders pull up tight and he buries his hands in Harry‟s hair and Harry‟s arms wrap around his waist and it feels so good to kiss him again, like that first big breath after being underwater too long.

He feels his feet leave the floor for a moment and Harry‟s picking him up and spinning them around, pressing Louis‟ back into the lockers. Louis lets him, lets his mouth fall open for Harry right away because if he had to go a week without this he‟s damn well going to make up for it now, but Harry‟s taking his time with it. He runs his hands over Louis‟ chest, holding him close by the lapels of his coat, and kisses him slowly, making each slide and drag of their lips count, pulling back every few kisses so that their lips are barely brushing and then smirking when Louis has to crane his neck up into it for more. He kisses like he‟s got nowhere else to be, like Louis is the only person in the world.

  
Louis is sure that other people besides the two of them do, in fact exist. He‟s sure he‟ll remember some of them in a minute.

  
He finds himself suddenly staring at the opposite wall when Harry ducks his head and starts pressing kisses all around his throat, and Louis lets his head fall back and slides one hand to the back of Harry‟s neck, dipping his fingers into the little gap under the collar of his hoodie and feeling the knobs of bone there, the warmth trapped in that space. It feels good, and affectionate, and good, and Louis is almost choking on the feeling of being kissed like that when Harry suddenly drops his hands to Louis‟ sides and starts tickling him.

  
Louis splutters and laughs and flails wildly while Harry just grins down at him through red lips, and, God, Harry is a prick and Louis should not be so happy about it, but he is.  
“I hate you,” Louis says when Harry finally relents, and then immediately undercuts his own words by reeling Harry back in for another smiling kiss. Harry wraps his hands around Louis‟ waist and spins him again, only stopping to drop down onto a bench and pull Louis into his lap. A few more melting kisses, and Louis pulls away with a contented noise.

  
“I missed that,” Louis says. I missed you, is what he means.  
  
“Me too,” Harry says, rubbing circles with his thumb on the skin just under Louis‟ sleeve. “D‟you want to go get some dinner or something?”

  
And here it is. There are two parts of Louis tied up there against Harry‟s chest, two needs filling up his head. There‟s the part of him that spent all day waiting for this, that goes all jellyfish when Harry looks at him like that and wants to do whatever it takes to make him do it all the time, and then there‟s that persistent beat in the hardest part of his heart that says too close, too big, too much. He knows which one needs to win.

  
“Or,” Louis says, leaning up and kissing him again. “There‟s food at my flat.”

  
Louis is lucky that Harry‟s probably as horny as he is, because he doesn‟t press the issue, just smiles and gives his arse a light squeeze. “All right.”

  
Harry follows Louis back to his flat in his own car, and Louis can hardly wait until the front door is shut behind them before getting his hands on Harry again. They stumble across the flat until they fall onto Louis‟ bed, laughing at themselves. When Louis leans down and kisses the side of Harry‟s neck, Harry practically purrs into it, and Louis can feel his pulse pick up under his lips. He feels drunk and reckless and powerful, all because of the boy in his bed.

  
Their first orgasms come quick, rubbing against each other half-naked and too eager to make it last. There‟s plenty of night left, though, and in between cheese on toast and casual touches and Louis chasing Duchess out of the room they have plenty of time to lazily suck each other off in the sweaty sheets, leaving fingertip bruises on each other‟s thighs.

  
It goes on like that for the next week and a half, Harry following Louis back to his flat or meeting him there later in the evening, sometimes with a bag of takeaway, sometimes with some sort of treat for Duchess as a peace offering. It must work, because Louis sees her sit in Harry‟s lap at least three times, which is more than she‟s ever liked anyone who isn‟t him, much less someone who‟s kicked her out of Louis‟ room as many times as Harry has.

  
Not that they‟re just in Louis‟ room. The entire flat has been christened within the week, and suddenly Louis can‟t look at a single corner or piece of furniture without memories of skin and mouths and pressing fingers. He‟s reminded of someone he once slept with who said that only penetration counted as “real” sex, and he pities him retroactively. He and Harry haven‟t even done that yet, but he‟s never felt this well-fucked in his life.

  
It‟s nice. It‟s more than nice, it‟s comfortable and exciting, and Harry, bless him, seems to know not to push it. He doesn‟t ever stay over, always managing to clamber out of bed and into his car. After Louis shoots down a few suggestions of other activities—the cinema, dinner, some sort of art exhibit—Harry stops asking. He seems content with this, coming over to have sex and “hang out,” as he always puts it. He doesn‟t ask any tough questions and Louis is very, very glad.

  
It‟s good that things with Harry are easy, because Louis has to manage Grease auditions, which is no small task. Much Ado auditions hadn‟t been that bad, but this is a musical, and musicals are a whole different species. It‟s a three step process just for the first round of auditions on Saturday—choreography then singing then acting—and then Sunday is going to be a day of call-backs and headaches and wondering how in the hell he gets this done every go-round. It‟s the same every time.

  
He‟s got a serious problem this time, though, because going by the audition sign-up sheet, there are simply just not enough boys to fill out the chorus. He needs at least half a dozen more, or else all of the choreography is going to be uneven because half of the girls won‟t have dance partners and the harmonies are going to sound off because there aren‟t enough bass voices to round them out.

  
He mentions this to Harry two days before auditions. Well, not so much mentions it as moans it from the floor of his living room while Harry is going through a roll of photographs on his laptop and Louis is lamenting the state of his professional life.

 

“I could try talking to the team about it,” Harry offers. “Maybe some of them would be willing to try out.”

  
“Right, because the football team is exactly where all the budding thespians go,” Louis deadpans.

  
“You never know,” Harry says, poking Louis in the side with his toe. “Lots of footwork in football. And if I recall correctly, a certain drama teacher I know isn‟t too bad with a football himself.”

  
Louis grins in spite of himself at that, and Harry winks and laughs, and Louis sort of forgets about it. He seriously doubts there‟s any way any of the footy lads can be persuaded to audition for a musical, so it‟s not like it matters. The thought never really crosses his mind, and he tells Harry he absolutely cannot see him until auditions are over because he needs to focus on getting his job done, so there‟s nothing to remind him about it.

  
That is, until the doors of the theatre swing open five minutes before his choreographer is supposed to start teaching the kids their audition routine and a gaggle of boys comes tromping in. Louis stares, dumbfounded, as they make their way down the aisle to the little table he‟s set up in front of the stage, laughing and ribbing each other along the way. He‟s never had a single one of them in any of his classes, but he recognizes them all. He‟s been to too many of Harry‟s games not to.

  
“Morning, Mr. Tomlinson,” the one in the front says as they draw even with his table. He‟s got red hair and Louis knows him immediately. His name is Mike Kendall.  
“Hello,” Louis says. He‟s aware that he‟s probably looking at this poor boy like he‟s got about nine heads, but he‟s still in shock. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah, we‟re here for auditions,” Mike says, pulling a folded up sheet of paper out of his back pocket. He unfolds it and hands it to Louis, and Louis finds himself staring at a wrinkled audition sheet with the name Kendall, Michael David written at the top. “Sorry we haven‟t signed up for times or anything, it was all kind of last minute. Can we still try out?”

  
Yes, please, oh god don‟t leave please we need you, Louis thinks but does not say.

  
“I could probably fit you lads in somewhere,” Louis tells him, and Mike smiles. He looks over Mike‟s shoulder at the rest of the boys, who don‟t look quite as amicable about the whole situation but seem overall willing to participate. “Have the rest of you got your forms?”

  
Louis collects their paperwork and sends them off to choreography, still in disbelief of what just happened. He texts Harry as soon as they‟re gone _,_

_what did you do, blackmail them????_

  
_just told them what a great director you are and how fun it would be :) xxx_ Harry‟s reply says.

  
_pull the other one_ , 

Louis texts back.

  
_also I promised them I wouldn‟t make them run suicide drills until after the play was over ;) xx_

  
The rush of affection Louis feels in his chest makes him want to throw his damn phone at the wall, but he can‟t, because he can‟t afford a new one, so he just texts Harry back, I owe you x, and shoves his phone back in his jeans. He‟s got an audition to run.  
  
All in all, it ends up being a bit of a mess like it usually is, but it‟s not bad and his two-day stress migraine is almost bearable. He‟s got a bit of really strong talent this year, and even Harry‟s boys aren‟t completely hopeless. He ends up casting Stuart Standhill as Danny, not because he favours him but because he‟s honestly the best for the part. He can sing, he can dance, he can turn his camp tendencies on or off whenever he needs to, and Louis knows he can trust him to carry a show this big. And okay, maybe if pressed he‟d admit that part of him hopes that this role will do for Stuart what it did for him when he was in high school, but he's still the most qualified.

  
Sunday night, when it‟s all said and done, he texts Harry to come over. It‟s been a long weekend, and he could really use a bottle of wine and a nice, slow fuck right about now.  
Harry shows up with a bottle of red in hand and lips bitten bright pink by the cold. Louis pops the cork, and they spend an hour kissing on Louis‟ couch and passing the bottle back and forth, getting lazily drunk off of Tesco's wine and each other. Louis feels the stress and tension finally easing out of his body, and he gets a little looser with his kisses, lets his fingers trace over Harry‟s cheekbones when they kiss, a little sweeter than he usually lets himself be. He figures Harry‟s earned it.

  
“Thank you,” he says, pushing Harry‟s hair back off his forehead to plant a kiss there. “For getting the boys to audition. I don‟t know what I would‟ve done.”

  
“Anything I can do to help,” Harry says, smiling.

  
“Yeah,” Louis says, reaching for his belt buckle, “I know.”

  
“I was really just trying to get into your trousers, though,” Harry says, getting one of his hands down there to help Louis along.

  
“How very dare you,” Louis says. He tugs Harry‟s trousers open and slides his hand inside. “What kind of boy do you think I am?”

  
Harry opens his mouth to retort, but then Louis‟ hand is around his cock and that‟s the end of that.


	9. Nine

-L-

“So I was thinking,” Harry says, lying in Louis‟ bed on a Tuesday night.

  
“Hmm?” Louis responds, already slipping into a post-coital coma on his side of the bed.

  
Harry shifts, turning on his side to look at Louis. In a few minutes, he‟ll sit up and start pulling his clothes back on, getting ready to drive back to his flat so that he can make it to class in the morning. For now, though, he‟s here, and his hair is falling in his eyes. Sleepily, Louis wants to reach out and touch it.

  
“Every time we‟ve… you know. Hung out,” Harry says, smirking slightly. “It‟s been here, at yours.”

  
“S‟true,” Louis murmurs, his hand sliding across the bed of its own accord and grazing Harry‟s forearm.

  
“D‟you think,” Harry says, pausing to yawn. “This weekend, d‟you want to come over to mine?” His fingers curl around Louis‟ wrist. “I‟ll make you dinner,” he says with a smile.

  
“Yeah?” Louis says, his eyes drifting closed. “Okay. That sounds nice.”

  
“Okay,” he hears Harry whisper softly. “Okay.”  
  
Harry‟s gone when he wakes up, but there‟s a Post-It left on the pillow with a message scrawled hastily.

  
_Early class, sorry :( dinner Friday, 8 PM? xx Hazza_

  
Louis spends his morning routine wondering when exactly they started apologizing for being apart.

  
When he gets into his car, he pulls the door closed and sits for a moment, motionless, in the driver‟s seat. Then, moving quickly as if he‟s on a deadline, he pulls out his phone and sends Harry a text.

  
_ur on for friday :)_

  
He stares at the phone briefly, then tosses it into the passenger seat and puts the car in drive. It's just dinner. They eat dinner together all the time, and it doesn't mean anything. A change of venue doesn't change that. Who decided that eating food at the same time and place as another human was supposed to be significant, anyway? Surely mankind has evolved beyond that as a species by now. Right. Just another casual evening with the friend that he's sleeping with, with the added bonus of free food. Sounds like fun.

  
At lunch, Harry breaks into a grin when Louis walks into the lounge, pulling him off to the side while Zayn and Niall roll their eyes.

  
“Hi,” he says, thumbing over Louis‟ wrist. They‟ve made a no-kissing-during-school-hours rule, but that doesn‟t mean they can keep their hands to themselves. “So I can‟t come over tonight. Or tomorrow night. I‟ve got a presentation on Friday that I really, really need to ace.”

  
“That‟s all right,” Louis says. “I‟m massively behind on marking anyway, I could use the time to catch up."

  
Harry smiles ruefully at him. “Sorry about that.”  
  
“Are not,” Louis says primly, poking at Harry‟s hip with his free hand.

  
“Oi!” Niall says from the table. “Hands above the waist!” Louis sticks his tongue out at him, but removes his hand all the same.

  
“I‟m excited for Friday,” Harry says softly. “It‟s—my flat‟s not much, but I promise I can cook, at least.” He looks nervous. Louis wants to pinch his cheeks and then sleep with him.

  
“I‟m sure I‟ll love everything,” he says. He opens his mouth to say more, but is interrupted by his friends being twats.

  
“Oh, Zayn, whisper sweet nothings to me, please!” Niall says, laying his head on Zayn‟s shoulder.

  
“Only if we can be as disgusting about it as possible, preferably with other people in the room, my dear,” Zayn says, stroking at Niall‟s face. “Especially if it‟s while people are trying to eat.”

  
Harry and Louis both laugh, and they go to sit down to eat. Louis bites into an apple and tries not to think about whether eating dinner at Harry‟s counts as anything particularly romantic or date-like. Because it doesn't. Right?

  
He hadn‟t been kidding about being behind on marking, and the rest of the week passes in a blur of thesis statements and topic sentences. Soon enough it‟s Friday night, and he finds himself on the way to Harry‟s house, hair coiffed and trousers recently ironed. Not that anything unusual is happening. They‟re just going to hang out, like normal, but in another place. Definitely not a big deal.

  
Louis times it perfectly, pulling his car to a stop in front of Harry‟s at exactly 8 o'clock. He‟ll reach the door a few minutes late, but not so late as to be rude. He‟s got this down to an art. He grabs the bottle of wine that‟s in the backseat and slides out of the car, making sure it‟s locked before he sets off across the dimly lit car park. Harry‟s neighborhood looks a bit dodgy after dark, and Louis is reminded of what it‟s like to live on a student budget.

  
The lift is a bit creaky, but he makes it to Harry‟s floor in one piece. When he knocks on the door, he hears a muffled “Come in!”

  
He turns the doorknob, finds it unlocked, and is all set to lecture Harry about safety when he walks in, but then. Well.

  
The flat is full of soft music, emanating from an iPod deck on the kitchen counter. Harry‟s at the stove with at least three different pots and pans on the burners, steam making his curls even more unruly than usual as he leans over to stir them. The kitchen is surprisingly clean, though Louis supposes there isn‟t really room for mess—Harry wasn‟t kidding about the place being the size of a postage stamp.

  
Pulling off an oven mitt, Harry turns around with a smile, and Jesus Christ in heaven, he‟s wearing an apron. He‟s also wearing a snug black button-up with the sleeves rolled back, though, so Louis gets distracted from the apron pretty quickly. “Hi,” Harry says, crossing the kitchen in two strides. He takes the wine from Louis with one hand and pulls him into a kiss with the other.

  
“Hi,” Louis says, breaking the kiss. “Didn‟t realise this was going to be such a production,” he says, nodding at the apron.

  
Harry quirks one eyebrow upwards. “I don‟t do anything by halves,” he says mock-seriously.

  
“Fair enough,” Louis says, pulling back to take a peek at the food. “That smells delicious, what is it?”

  
“Tilapia on risotto with a lemon caper sauce," Harry says, as if that's a normal sentence. "But it's not ready yet, so get away. He shoos Louis out of the kitchen, though Louis isn‟t quite sure what does or doesn‟t qualify as “in the kitchen” when the whole flat is basically just one big room. “Actually,” Harry says, handing him back the wine along with a corkscrew. “You open that up while I finish up in here.”

  
Louis starts uncorking the wine and takes his chance to wander around the flat. There‟s not much to wander around, but Louis is fascinated. One corner of the studio is partitioned off by a wooden screen, and he assumes Harry‟s bed is behind it, but it‟s the rest of the flat he‟s more interested in. The space itself is fairly sparsely decorated, with one armchair, one rug, and one set of table and chairs as the only furniture. All three are fairly good quality, the table solid wood, but Louis can tell they‟re second- or third-hand, can imagine Harry finding them on the pavement and lugging them home excitedly.

  
He‟s been listening idly to the music as he moseys about, and thinks he recognizes it. “Is this the same bloke we were listening to at Christmas?” he asks.

  
Harry breaks into a broad grin. “Yeah, same guy, I‟m surprised you remember.” Louis just nods and goes back to his explorations.

  
The furnishings may be Spartan, but the flat feels anything but bare on account of the walls. Almost every available inch is covered, giving the room the air of a combination between a magpie‟s nest and a serial killer‟s den. Louis is into it. Wall hangings, newspaper clippings, and prints of paintings all have their place, but the most real estate is taken up by photographs, photos of buildings, of landscapes, of animals, of landmarks, but mostly photos of people, photos of faces. Louis doesn‟t know if these are all friends of Harry‟s, or if some are just candids snapped of strangers, but either way he‟s overwhelmed by the idea that Harry has seen this many people and wanted to keep them.

  
He backs up to the center of the room and turns in a slow circle, taking all of it in. Even the windows are covered, with what look like collections of scarves and beaded shawls and one medium-sized Union Jack in the place of normal curtains. Louis feels like he‟s in a fishbowl of Harry‟s entire life, and keeps waiting for a feeling of suffocation that never comes.  
  
“Where did you get all this stuff?” Louis asks, his eyes running over one wall. In a brief skim he spots pictures of a pair of redheaded twins, the Golden Gate Bridge, and a young woman who can only be Gemma, looking exactly as he imagined her with pink streaks in her hair. He looks to the left and sees a print of a Turner painting, a small tapestry of a dragon, and a constellation of paper snowflakes. He looks up and sees that there‟s a string of multi-colored Christmas lights bordering the ceiling, blinking merrily. God, he‟s having dinner inside Harry‟s brain.

  
One picture catches his eye, pinned up next to the one of Gemma. He‟s never seen it before, but he still recognizes it immediately. He and Harry are standing with Niall and Zayn in front of a Ferris wheel. Zayn looks despondent, Niall looks like he just had in orgy in a fry cooker, Louis is obscured by a giant bear, and there, there is Harry, grinning blissfully at tiny hidden photograph Louis, his head turned in profile away from the camera. Louis wants to tear it off the wall, fold it up, put it in his wallet, and only look at it when he‟s very, very sad.

  
“Wherever I go, I tend to just pick stuff up, and usually I just never throw it out,” Harry says, finishing up his elaborate plating. There's garnish. Louis may never recover from this. “I like being surrounded by memories. And, I don‟t know, I‟d feel guilty if I got rid of it now.” He brings the plates over to the table, going back to the kitchen for wine glasses.

  
Louis smiles at his retreating back. “I‟m surprised you‟re not surrounded by stray cats you‟ve taken in,” he says, “Or, I don‟t know, followed around by ducklings. You‟re a Disney princess, Harry Styles.” Returning with the glasses, Harry gives an exaggerated curtsy.

  
“Have you actually not opened that yet?” Harry asks, gesturing towards the bottle of wine in Louis‟ hands. Louis looks down, slightly bewildered to see it there.

  
“Sorry,” he says, uncorking it with a pop, “Got distracted.”  
  
“Ah yes, you‟re so easily distracted,” Harry says with a sly grin, taking the bottle from him and filling both their glasses. Louis flips him a V and takes his glass, stifling a smile in response to Harry‟s laugh.

  
They sit down to eat what turns out to be a truly delicious meal, and every worry that Louis had about this night slinks away unnoticed as he looks at Harry across the table. As they eat, they lapse in and out of conversation, but the words are easy and the silences comfortable. Louis feels fluid and warm, more so than is justified by his single glass of wine. He knows this feeling, has felt it before, but can‟t quite put a name to it.

  
“So,” Harry says, looking at Louis‟ empty plate, “I take it you enjoyed the food?” He takes a drink, and Louis finds himself staring, caught up in the movement of the tendons in his wrist, following the bob of his Adam‟s apple as he swallows the wine.

  
Louis wants to give a sarcastic answer, but can‟t quite bring himself to. “Yeah, they were incredible. I am officially impressed.”

  
Harry beams at him. “Yeah, well, I‟ll be honest, they‟re my best dish, so it‟s always a safe choice when I‟m looking to impress.”

  
Ah, yes. There‟s the word Louis was looking for. Safe.

  
He raises his glass and drains it dry in a single swallow before standing and walking around the table.

  
“What—” is all Harry can manage, pushing his chair back from the table, before Louis is sliding into his lap and kissing him insistently. He swallows the rest of Harry‟s question, his hands gripping his shoulders tightly. Harry may have been caught off-guard, but he‟s a quick study, gripping Louis‟ arse and hauling him in closer. Louis slips one hand around behind Harry‟s neck and under his shirt collar, spreading his fingers to touch as much skin as possible. Harry makes a soft sound and breaks away from the kiss, breathing heavily.  
  
“Jesus, Lou,” he says with a small laugh, pulling back to search Louis‟ face. “If you‟ve got a risotto fetish or something, just tell me. I‟ll find a way to make it work.”  
Louis does his best to wipe the grin off his face and leans back in, stealing a quick kiss. “If you expect me,” another kiss, “to look at you across this table all night,” another, “and not want you,” another, this one lingering, “you‟re even stupider than your Christmas lights.”

  
Harry nuzzles into Louis‟ neck. “You like the Christmas lights.” He slides a hand up the back of Louis‟ jumper. The breadth of it nearly covers the width of Louis‟ back, and Louis‟ breath catches.

  
“Yeah, I do,” Louis says, pulling Harry back up into a kiss, and this one neither of them breaks.

  
He‟s never been a slow-moving kind of guy, but Louis can‟t help but savor this, enjoy every sweep of Harry‟s tongue into his mouth, every sound Harry makes when Louis tugs on his hair. Harry seems quite content himself, with one hand on Louis‟ back and the other roaming the rest of him, mapping his thigh, his waist, his cheek. Louis thinks he could stay here forever, clinging to Harry on a rickety wooden chair, if Harry promised never to stop touching him like this.

  
It doesn‟t take long for him to want more, though. They‟ve fallen into a sort of rhythm, Louis grinding down against Harry and Harry pushing back languidly, holding him close. Louis can tell that Harry is hard, can feel it every time Harry pushes against him, and you know what, he loves kissing as much as the next guy, but he wants that.

  
Sucking on Harry‟s tongue, Louis moves his fingers to his shirtfront, making quick work of the buttons. He starts to push it off his shoulders but gives up, settling for letting his hands slide down Harry‟s chest. God, is it normal for someone to have this much skin? To be so warm? Louis can‟t remember ever feeling hungry for someone like this. Harry‟s got to be a special case. Harry makes him wish he had extra hands.

Louis scratches his nails lightly across Harry‟s abdomen and relishes the feel of his muscles tightening up, the way his entire torso shivers. He makes a pleased sound into Harry‟s mouth that turns into a surprised squeak when he finds himself suddenly in the air. Harry‟s slid his hands under Louis‟ thighs and lifted, and Louis locks his legs behind Harry‟s back automatically, throwing his arms around Harry‟s neck. He hears Harry‟s chair clatter to the floor behind them. Harry walks a total of three, maybe four steps, and Louis‟ back hits a wall.

  
Harry‟s hands are gentle as he holds Louis in place, but his mouth is bruising. Louis is in sensory overload, hyperaware of Harry surrounding him and the feel of the photographs on the wall behind him scratching his neck. His mind flashes to the tickle of grass and a disappearing sky, and he bites down on Harry‟s lip. Harry groans, shifting them slightly to the right, and Louis can feel photos tearing away from the wall.

  
“Hazza—” he says, “your, the—” is all he can manage, his vocabulary completely out of reach.

  
“Don‟t care,” Harry says, mouthing at the soft underside of Louis‟ jaw, and Louis‟ eyes flutter closed. His hips work helplessly, but the position makes it difficult and he can‟t get any purchase. He‟d be lying if he said he didn‟t enjoy being so enveloped by Harry, but he wants more, wants to be able to touch as much of him as he likes.

  
He pulls lightly on Harry‟s hair. “Harry,” he says weakly. Harry responds by pressing a sucking kiss to the juncture of his neck and shoulder. “Haz,” he tries again, and this time Harry looks up, carefully settling Louis‟ feet back on the ground. Louis is thankful for the wall behind him as he regains his surefootedness.

  
“What is it, Lou?” Harry murmurs, his hands coming to rest on Louis‟ waist. His mouth is shining, and Louis can see the raised red tracks on his stomach where he scratched him. He loves it, loves seeing his own signature all over Harry.  
  
“I want—” he starts, but can‟t find the words, can‟t put what he‟s thinking into any sentence that he can imagine saying out loud.

  
“Louis, please,” Harry says, sounding strangled. “There‟s nothing—whatever you want, Lou, anything.” He doesn‟t seem to realise he‟s pressing his hips into Louis‟, and God, that is really not helping him be coherent.

  
Louis musters up what courage he has and forces out the words. “I want—I know we haven‟t done this yet, but, God, Harry, I want, I want to be inside of you,” he forces out in one stammering breath. “Please.”

  
He‟s half-cringing at himself, but Harry isn‟t. Harry‟s mouth has dropped open ever so slightly, and he‟s nodding powerlessly. “Yes, I—” he swallows, “I want that too, God, Lou, I want that, I want that,” and then he‟s kissing Louis again, like he‟s lost the use of words, and they have that in common at least.

  
Harry lifts Louis up again, and this time they‟re moving to the screened-off section of the studio, and when Louis is set down it‟s on a mattress on the floor. He looks around and then raises his eyebrows at Harry. “Cosy,” he says. “At least there are sheets on it.”

  
“Shut up,” Harry says, finally shucking the shirt from his shoulders. “Could be worse, I could have a cat that likes to come into the room and watch.”

  
“That happened one time—” Louis protests, but he‟s cut off with a kiss, Harry leaning over him. His hands slip under Louis‟ jumper again, but this time they keep moving, and Louis breaks off the kiss to let him pull it over his head. Fuck, Louis must have too many nerve endings for a normal human, because the feeling of Harry‟s bare chest against his makes him feel like he‟s going to burst into flames.

  
The sensation vanishes soon enough, though, because Harry is moving down Louis‟ body and undoing his trousers, pulling them and his pants down his thighs in one motion. Louis‟ cock bobs free, more than half-hard, and he has half a moment to appreciate the cat‟s-got-the-canary look on Harry‟s face before he‟s enveloped in plush, wet heat and his head slams back against the mattress.

  
Harry must have gone down on him half a dozen times by now, but Louis still hasn‟t gotten used to the sheer enthusiasm of it, the way his fingers dig into Louis‟ hips and move him exactly where he wants him. Harry‟s eyes are closed tightly, focused on the feel of it, and Louis wonders if he‟d make the same face when Louis fucked him. That thought brings him suddenly back to reality, and he tugs on Harry‟s hair, pulling him off with a sound that downright indecent.

  
“No—” he starts, but then backtracks at Harry‟s arched eyebrows, “I mean yes, God, yes, but this, this isn‟t how I want to come tonight and, just, come up here,” he says, motioning Harry up the bed. Harry makes a show of weariness as he crawls toward him, but he quickly turns to surprised laughter when Louis flips him over.

  
Harry lies back and watches as Louis undoes his trousers and pulls them off, followed by his briefs, deigning to lift his hips at the appropriate times. Louis toes off his shoes and kicks off his own trousers and pants, leaving the two of them naked on the bed.

  
And God, Louis knows Harry is beautiful, has known it since the second he saw him for the first time, but it‟s still striking sometimes. This is one of those times, Harry on his back in the soft light of his flat, looking up at Louis like he deserves any of this.

  
“Like what you see?” Harry says, waggling his eyebrows, and fine, maybe “beautiful” isn‟t the word, maybe the word is “goober.”

  
Louis snorts and grabs Harry‟s cock, which shuts him up effectively. “Where do you keep the lube in this establishment?” he asks imperiously.

  
Harry reaches up behind him and under the pillow, pulling out a bottle of lube and a few condoms, which he tosses down to Louis. “Do you keep that there all the time, or did you just think I was a sure thing?” Louis asks, leaving the condoms to the side and cracking open the lube.

  
“No comment, “ Harry replies, whining a bit as Louis lets go of him to slick up two of his fingers. Louis taps the inside of his leg and he spreads them accordingly, letting Louis settle in between.

  
Louis slides his fingers behind Harry‟s balls, gliding back until he finds what he‟s looking for. When he slides his fingers over it, Harry hisses, his hand moving to touch himself. Louis intercepts Harry‟s hand, bringing it to his lips and sucking two of his fingers into his mouth, and Harry gasps. In that moment of relaxation, Louis makes the first breach, slipping one finger inside. He works it in and out carefully, licking at Harry‟s fingers in time, and watching Harry‟s other hand clench and pull at the sheets.

  
“Fuck, Lou, you‟ve got to—you‟ve got to give me more than that,” Harry says, his breath harsh. Louis lets his fingers fall from his mouth, but covers Harry‟s hand with his own to hold it down.

  
“Is that so?” he says, and slips the second finger inside. He can see the effect it has, can see Harry‟s dick twitch in response, and knows he must want to touch himself, but Harry‟s free hand stays twisted in the sheets and he knows it‟s because Harry‟s realised Louis wants it that way.

  
Louis spreads his fingers slightly, starting to open Harry up, and watches the shaky rise and fall of his ribcage. He can see every hitched breath exposed there, every bitten-off gasp. Harry looks at him with heavy-lidded eyes, waiting for Louis‟ next move, and spreads his legs wider. Louis knows it‟s a ploy for more, but he‟ll be damned if he doesn‟t fall for it.

  
He stops scissoring his fingers and pushes them in deep, sliding in past the second knuckle. Crooking them, he starts drawing them back out, and there. Harry‟s hips push jerkily back against his fingers, spasms running through his thighs, and his face turns to the side, pressing into the bed. “Fuck, Lou,” he says, his eyes closed tightly now. “Again.” His hand opens under Louis‟ and laces their fingers together.

  
Louis moves closer, settled on his knees between Harry‟s outspread legs, one hand twined with Harry‟s and one hand working inside him. He repeats his earlier movement, dragging his fingers across the same spot, and watches rapt as the muscles in Harry‟s torso flutter and his free hand goes white-knuckled in the bedclothes. Harry‟s so hard, God, he‟s leaking against his own stomach. Louis feels an echoing ache just looking at him, but he can‟t do anything about his own hard-on with both his hands otherwise occupied.

  
He picks up a rhythm, his fingers moving back and forth smoothly, and Harry‟s right there with him, his hips rocking to meet Louis‟ every movement. Louis can tell he‟s hitting that spot in Harry every time by the soft, desperate whine that starts coming from him when he exhales. Louis doesn‟t think Harry even knows he‟s making a sound, too caught up in pursuing whatever sensation he‟s feeling, whatever Louis‟ giving him.

  
Harry‟s eyes slip open, staring Louis down. “Louis,” he says, his voice tight, “Please, I can take more. Please.” Louis‟ fingers glide across that spot again on the last word, turning it into a stifled shout.

  
“Hmm,” Louis says, considering the spectacle that Harry presents. “No.”

  
“Fuck,” Harry practically spits, pushing down hard against Louis‟ fingers. “I do not know what I see in you, Jesus,” he says, panting, but there‟s the shadow of a grin on his face. Louis smiles back, and twists in a third finger without warning.

  
“Christ,” Harry cries, his back arching off the mattress. His arms jerk, and his tight grip on Louis‟ hand nearly pulls Louis off-balance. He slides back into the same rhythm as before, transfixed by the state Harry is in, covered in a sheen of sweat, the flush that Louis has seen so often in his cheeks having crept all the way down his chest. It‟s darkest on his cock, which lies wet and full against his stomach. Suddenly, intimately, he feels like he can understand the impulse behind Harry‟s need to photograph everything. He wants a record of this, wants to have evidence of how Harry looked while Louis took him apart, how much he loved it.

  
Louis doesn‟t want to stop teasing Harry, but that desire isn‟t strong enough to keep him from touching him as much as he possibly can. He bends over, sliding his knees back, and presses his mouth to the hollow of Harry‟s hip in a wet kiss before sinking in his teeth. Harry lets out a low groan, his left leg drawing up over Louis‟ shoulder. Louis soothes the bitemark with the flat of his tongue, steadily ignoring the feel of Harry‟s cock brushing against the side of his face and neck.

  
He looks up along the length of Harry‟s body, meeting his eyes, his fingers still working inside him. “Tell me,” he says, surprised at the hoarseness of his own voice, “Tell me what you‟re feeling.”

  
Harry draws in a gasping breath but doesn‟t break eye contact. “God, Lou,” he says, squeezing hard with the hand Louis still has trapped against his. “You feel—fuck, you make me feel so good, this feels so good, please—”

  
Louis sucks hard on the bitemark again. “Please what,” he says, breathless.

  
“Please,” Harry says in a ruined voice. “Please,” and Louis has to bury his face against Harry‟s hip in the face of his open want.

  
“Yeah, okay,” he says, pressing one last kiss to the bruise forming where he bit Harry.

  
He pulls his fingers out gently and lets go of Harry‟s hand. Harry makes an unhappy sound at the loss, sliding his leg off Louis‟ shoulder. Louis shushes him and reaches for the condoms, still on the bed where he left them. His fingers are still slick, though, and he fumbles with the package, unable to tear it open.  
  
“Here,” Harry says, sitting up slightly. He reaches out, and Louis hands him the foil square. With his clean hands, Harry tears the package open. He slips the condom out, and then reaches down between his legs, grabbing Louis by the base. The contact is a shock; so focused on Harry, Louis hadn‟t given much thought to his own state. He does his best to keep his composure as Harry places the condom over the tip, and then unrolls it in a single slick slide of his fist. Even through the latex, the sudden sensation has Louis grasping at Harry‟s shoulder, looking for balance.

  
Harry turns his head to nip lightly at Louis‟ arm, and then looks up at him with a smile. “I‟d tell you to be gentle with me,” he says, wide-eyed with false innocence, “But I think you‟d take me seriously.”

  
Louis knows a challenge when he sees one, and pushes Harry on his back, laughing. He plants his hands firmly on either side of Harry‟s head, looming above him. “One of us has to,” he says, leaning in to kiss him, and God, the last time they kissed must have been only a few minutes ago, but somehow Louis has managed to miss it already.  
He makes himself pull away and sits back, pulling one of the pillows with him. He pushes at Harry, getting him to lift his hips, and slips the pillow underneath. “What a gentleman,” Harry murmurs as Louis grabs the lube and slicks himself up one last time.

  
“If you say so,” Louis says, smiling, and lines himself up. He looks at Harry carefully, and has his answer when Harry‟s legs lock behind him.

  
He pushes in slow, watching Harry‟s face and holding fast to his hips. It‟s almost too much, the feel of Harry tight around him and the look on his face, eyes closed and teeth biting down on his lower lip. Louis is almost halfway inside when Harry lets out a broken noise.

  
Louis freezes. “Okay?” he asks, his thumb stroking over Harry‟s hipbone.

  
“Better than,” Harry says, his eyes still closed. “Keep going.”  
  
“Good,” Louis says, and reaches out to wrap a hand around Harry‟s cock as he pushes the rest of the way inside.

  
Harry‟s eyes fly open at that, ribcage heaving. Louis keeps stroking him, twisting at the end the way he‟s learned Harry likes, and pulls out slightly, his own breath coming short at the hot drag of it. He wants to wind Harry up some more, wants to bring him to the edge, because he knows he won‟t be able to last long like this.

  
It seems that Harry has other plans, though. He bats Louis‟ hand away from him and reaches up to Louis‟ shoulders, pulling him down into a kiss that‟s all teeth and tongues.

Harry‟s arms twine around Louis‟ neck and his legs tighten around his waist, pulling Louis in deep.

  
Wrapped up in Harry, Louis has to break the kiss and take a couple of deep gasping breaths. He‟s braced above Harry, but his arms are shaking, and he drops down onto his forearms and buries his face in Harry‟s neck. He tries to regroup, but it‟s difficult to focus when there‟s so much of Harry everywhere. Louis noses up under his jaw, pressing light kisses to the skin there. Harry sighs happily, his hands dragging down Louis‟ back in a soothing motion.

  
Louis pulls himself together, lifting his head to slot his lips over Harry‟s again, and works to find the rhythm his hand had made earlier. As his thrusts pick up speed, Harry‟s fingers dig into his back, and Louis starts swallowing the small noises that escape him. He can feel the head of Harry‟s cock rubbing wetly against his stomach, and the idea that this is working, that he gets to feel this good and make Harry feel good at the same time, nearly undoes him.

  
It‟s Harry who breaks the kiss this time, his head falling back. “Fuck, Lou, you‟re going to kill me if you keep this up,” he says, voice rasping. Louis shifts one of his hands and runs a thumb down the line of Harry‟s throat mindlessly.

  
“If it‟s any comfort,” he says, hissing as his thrust drives Harry further into the mattress, “I‟m not sure I can. Keep it up, that is.”

Harry just grins shakily, his nails scratching up Louis‟ back. “Oh, you mean this,” he says, tightening around Louis, “Is more than you can handle?” Louis lets out a noise that he‟ll find time to be embarrassed about later and mouths at Harry‟s jaw.

  
“Jesus, Hazza, I‟m going to come if you do that,” he half-whispers. He pulls out slightly before pushing back in, living for the way it makes Harry‟s eyes roll back.

  
“So come,” Harry says.

  
Louis squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head. “No, I can go longer.”

  
“Lou.” Harry is insistent. “D‟you want me—I‟m going to tell you what I‟m feeling, like before, okay?”

  
The way Louis shudders is all the answer he needs. Harry leans up and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and even with eyes closed Louis can feel the smile there. Then Harry falls back against the bed, and the words start coming out.

  
“Fuck, Lou, I love this, I love having you inside me. I love the, the stretch and the fullness of it, I love knowing I‟m still going to feel you inside me tomorrow when I‟m running drills at practice, fuck,” he catches his breath as Louis thrusts hard. “God, I love being able to feel how much you want me.”

  
Louis hears the desperate sound coming from him before he realises he‟s making it. He‟s glad he‟s got his eyes closed, because being able to watch these words leave Harry‟s mouth as he said them would probably send him to an early grave.

  
“God, this really gets to you, doesn‟t it?” Harry asks, and Louis feels fingers stroking lightly over his face, dragging across his mouth. “I love seeing you like this, all torn up, Jesus, Lou, you should see yourself. Please, I want you to come, I want to watch you come, you‟re so gorgeous when you do. I want you to come inside me, I want to hold you through it, please, Lou—”

  
And that‟s it. Louis‟ orgasm hits him like a truck, and he sees stars. Harry, true to his word, keeps hold of him as he shakes through it. When he pulls himself together, Harry is looking at him with an expression that Louis can only describe as self-satisfied affection.

  
“I‟ve got you,” he says, and he‟s not even wrong, the bastard.

  
Louis sits back his haunches and pulls out as gently as he can. Harry winces at the emptiness, his arms stretched lazily above his head, and he‟s such a picture that Louis can‟t fucking stand it. He slides back on his knees, getting a good look at him. Then he bends over and, in one fluid movement, pushes four fingers inside Harry while sucking his cock into his mouth.

  
Harry‟s hips buck up, out of control, and Louis holds them down firmly with his free hand. There aren‟t any words coming from Harry now, only high-pitched noises that get louder every time Louis‟ fingers push inside him. Louis doesn‟t bother trying to deepthroat, just sucks hard and wet on the head of Harry‟s cock, loving the weight of him on his tongue. It‟s almost as good as the way Harry feels around his fingers, hot and open and willing.

  
Harry tugs on his hair in a universal signal, but Louis just pushes in deeper, just slides his mouth farther down Harry. Harry‟s hand slips lower, stroking down Louis‟ cheek, and then he‟s coming with a choked-off shout. Louis swallows around the bitterness that floods his mouth, waiting for it to end before sliding his fingers out gingerly.

  
He looks at Harry, who is staring at the ceiling in what appears to be a catatonic state. He‟s breathing, though, so Louis isn‟t too worried. Louis decides to give him a minute and stands up, stretching. He‟s probably got about two minutes until he passes out himself, so he should make use of them. He removes the condom, feeling rather pleased with himself, and ties it off while walking to the bathroom on wobbling legs. When he comes back, Harry is lying where he left him, but he manages to turn his head to look at Louis.  
  
“Come here,” he says, his voice gravel and sex. He slides over on the mattress, giving Louis room to lie down beside him. They‟re both sticky with sweat, but Harry doesn‟t seem to care, pulling Louis in close for a lazy kiss. He hums happily around Louis‟ tongue and then pulls away, giving him a final peck. “Sleep,” he says, though Louis isn‟t sure if he‟s talking to Louis or himself. He finds himself inclined to agree, though, even if Harry‟s head is heavy on his chest. His eyes slipping closed, he finds he doesn‟t mind much.

  
When he wakes, he knows it‟s morning by the sound of the birds outside. The light that strikes his face is soft, though, muted into various colors by the scarves Harry‟s got hanging in the window. Right. Harry.

  
Louis blinks the sleep from his eyes and turns to his right. There he is, curled up and rumpled, face slack and peaceful. Sometime in the night one of them must have pulled the sheet over them, and Harry‟s skin looks impossibly golden against the white fabric, like there‟s a light inside him that never turns off. It takes a conscious effort not to touch him.

  
He looks like he‟s sound asleep, and this is when Louis should make a break for it. He should carefully slide out from under the sheets, making sure not to wake Harry, dress in silence, and leave. He could leave a note like Harry did, get in his car, and drive. He could be home inside half an hour, easy, and fall back asleep in a bed that didn‟t come with this pathetic eagerness that‟s thumping in his chest.

  
Harry‟s a big boy, he would survive waking up alone, probably wouldn‟t even blink. But something in Louis rebels against that, bristles at the idea of Harry slowly surfacing into wakefulness with no one there to see. It just—it seems a waste. That‟s all.

  
So when Harry furrows his brow and makes an unhappy noise half an hour later, his fingers clenching in the sheets as he stretches, Louis is there. Harry‟s eyes squint open against the light and fall on Louis. The slow, groggy smile that blooms on his face is enough to put a gag on the part of Louis‟ brain that‟s still screaming for him to make his excuses and leave.

  
“Hi,” Harry says, rolling onto his side to face Louis.

  
“Hi,” Louis replies in a small voice, baffled. He knows he‟s, you know, pretty good at sex, but that doesn‟t justify the way that Harry is looking at him.

  
“Sleep okay?” Harry asks, and Louis just nods in response. “Good,” Harry says softly. “You want to come over here, then?” And, well, it would be rude to refuse, wouldn‟t it.  
Louis slides closer, his hand reaching out and running down Harry‟s arm. Harry‟s heat has seeped into the bed around him during the night, and his skin and the sheets have the same glowing warmth. Louis leans in and kisses Harry carefully. Their mouths are sour from the morning, but Louis can tolerate it for the sake of the pleased sound Harry makes.

  
Then all of a sudden he can‟t tolerate it anymore, not the softness of it, the slow melt of the moment. Soft things are quick to vanish, easy to forget, too fragile for life as Louis has come to understand it. And he can‟t tolerate that, not for this.

  
He pushes lightly at Harry‟s shoulder until Harry takes a hint and lies back, then breaks the kiss and settles down on his side next to Harry, pulling his left arm up above his head. Harry looks at him curiously, but Louis sees recognition dawning in his face as he leans in to sink his teeth into the underside of Harry‟s upper arm.

  
Harry draws in a hissing breath as Louis goes to work, biting and sucking at the spot that Harry had once set aside for him. “Christ, someone‟s pushy in the morning,” Harry says, sliding his other hand into Louis‟ hair. Louis breaks away, snickering into Harry‟s arm.

“I‟m sure I don‟t know what you‟re talking about,” he says slyly, sliding his hand under the sheets to wrap his hand around Harry‟s half-hard cock. His own erection presses up against Harry‟s hip, and Harry half laughs, half gasps.

  
“You little shit,” he says, and rolls over quickly so he‟s on top of Louis. He grins down fondly, lacing their hands above Louis‟ head, and slots their hips together. The contact and friction is good, it‟s so fucking good, but what has Louis breathless is the closeness of it, the way he and Harry are flush against each other head to toe.

  
They‟re barely moving, just shifting together slowly in the low light. It may be morning, but this second, right here, feels outside of time, like Louis is going to get stranded here forever if he doesn‟t watch himself. Harry leans his head close to whisper in Louis‟ ear, and Louis can feel every movement of his lips. “You‟re going to pay for that one, Tomlinson,” Harry says lightly, and Louis doesn‟t think he knows how right he is.

  
An hour and two orgasms later finds them in Harry‟s tiny shower, taking turns to duck under the weak spray and wash away the remains of the last twelve hours. Hands slide over slippery skin a few times, but neither of them can muster up the energy for shower groping, much less shower sex. They do indulge a brief make-out session against the bathroom sink after they‟ve brushed the morning breath from their mouths, but they‟re only human, and Harry tastes like mint and Louis.

  
When they leave the bathroom, Louis makes a beeline for his clothes, but Harry seems indifferent, walking naked to the kitchen. Louis watches from the corner, pulling on his pants, as Harry reaches up and takes something down from the top of the refrigerator: his camera.  
“Don‟t you dare,” Louis says, his trousers halfway up his legs, but Harry isn‟t pointing the camera at him. Instead, he turns and eyes the table.  
  
“So vain, Tommo,” Harry says, lining up his shot. The table is exactly as they left it last night, plates lying out and wineglasses empty. Harry‟s chair is still lying on the ground. He snaps pictures from a few different angles, then straightens, seemingly satisfied. He looks at Louis with a smile. “Don‟t worry, Lou, I won‟t document your current…vulnerability.” He nods at Louis‟ state of undress and walks to put the camera back above the fridge.

  
Louis makes himself laugh as he buckles his belt, but the words hit him harder than he wants to let on. If Harry wanted, he could document a hell of a lot of things, vulnerability included. It would scare the hell out of him if he let himself think about it, but it‟s muffled, buried under white sheets and colorful scarves and the thought of the picture Harry just took finding a place on his wall.

  
Harry saunters over, still naked, his hair dripping. He slips his arms around Louis‟ waist from behind and hums happily. “You could stay if you want,” he says. “For the day. I‟ve got food, we can just hole up here and…” he trails off, grinning into Louis‟ neck. “Hang out.”

  
And it sounds wonderful, it really does. It sounds amazing, and that‟s what‟s got Louis squirming, because it sounds so amazing that he could get used to it. Louis has a policy against getting used to amazing things, especially when he feels like he‟s already used up his monthly quota of self-indulgence. That‟s what staying would be, an indulgence, especially when he actually has things he needs to be doing.

  
He slips out of Harry‟s arms reluctantly and picks up his shirt, pulling it over his head. “Sorry, Hazza my boy, but I can‟t actually stay. I‟ve got to run by the flat to feed Duchess, she‟s been alone since last night.”

  
Harry just looks at him, his face falling. “You‟ve got to feed Duchess.”

  
Louis nods his head furiously. “She‟s very particular, if I don‟t get there soon she‟ll be out of sorts all week.” It‟s true. He has the scars to prove it. Sure, he could text Zayn and have him run over to feed her, or call one of his neighbors, but he can‟t justify doing that for the sake of a few more hours of sex, no matter how good it is.

  
Finally, Harry nods back. “Okay. Fair enough. Another time, then.”

  
“This was—I had a really nice time, this was lovely,” Louis stammers, feeling oddly guilty. He shouldn‟t feel guilty. These are the actions of a mature, responsible adult. “Thank you for dinner. And. Everything else.”

  
Harry just smirks a little and pulls Louis in by the waist, drawing him into a slow, unhurried kiss. “You‟re welcome,” he murmurs when they finally break apart, and God, this would be easier if Harry were at least wearing some pants.

  
Louis manages to extricate himself, doing his best to avoid all eye contact. Evasive maneuvers need to start now, or his resolve is going to collapse. He grabs his coat from the armchair and walks toward the door, preparing to say goodbye. Turning back, his hand on the doorknob, he‟s confronted with the sight of Harry leaning against the kitchen counter, watching him like a particularly lustful Greek statue. “I might be able to come back later,” Louis rushes, and that is absolutely not what he planned on having come out of his mouth.

  
“No pressure,” Harry says, but he‟s beaming, and naked, and Louis flees to the safety of the lift. If he slides down the wall and sits there, head between his knees, for a few minutes before hitting a button, then frankly he doesn‟t think he could be blamed.

  
He makes it back to his flat in one piece, and Duchess is only moderately wrathful over her delayed breakfast. It‟s a surprisingly productive day for him, and he cuts a vast swathe through the mountain of marking that‟s been looming over his head all week. If the urgency of avoiding the decision of whether or not to go back to Harry‟s gives him a bit of extra drive, well, at least his neuroses are having positive side effects this time around.

  
Louis has to quit dodging the issue when Harry texts him mid-afternoon. 

_so should i put clothes back on or not_

  
Groaning, Louis tosses the phone down the couch. Fucking Harry and his nudity and his ability to make this all sound so easy. And it feels easy, too, when Louis is with him, feels as easy as a song, which is all the more reason for Louis to be disciplined about this now. If he can‟t trust himself when he‟s around Harry, he can at least try to be rational when he‟s alone. Right now, rationality is telling Louis that the last time he had this little self-control he didn‟t like the way things ended. Sighing, he reaches down the couch and grabs the phone.

  
_sorry, haz, got buried by work, don‟t think i can make it :(_

  
He lets his head drop back against the cushions and thinks of Harry reading the text, thinks of the way his lips purse when he‟s disappointed. Before he can think about it, he picks the phone up one last time.

  
_but i‟ll be thinking of u later tonight when im alone ;)_

  
And honestly, what the fuck has rationality done for him lately anyway.

 

-Z-

 

Zayn has to admit, in retrospect, this was probably not one of his better ideas.

  
He really, really doesn't want to text Louis, because he knows Louis will never in a million years let him live this down. If Niall weren't away on a field trip, Zayn could maybe just text him instead and swear him to secrecy, and if he were very, very careful for the next month or so, Louis would never have to know and Zayn could escape a lifetime of disgrace. But as it is, Louis is his only hope. There's no way in hell he can leave this room in the state he's in, and his free period is almost over. He's running out of time.  
Zayn takes a deep breath and pulls out his phone, resigning himself to eternal shame.

  
_come to the lounge by the bathrooms in e building i need help D:_

  
He shrinks back into the corner as he waits for Louis' response. He is hiding in the teacher's lounge with his cardigan tied around his head. This is possibly a new low.  
His phone buzzes in his hand, the death knell of his dignity.

  
_in the middle of class, what do u need?_

  
Louis' reply reads, and there is no way Zayn is explaining this via text message.

  
_please just come it‟s an emergency DDD:_

  
It‟s another minute before Louis texts back, this had better be good, and Zayn cringes at the screen. Louis has no idea.

  
The few minutes it takes for Louis to make it over are enough time to work himself into a proper state over the whole situation. This is bad. This is very, very bad. By the time Zayn hears footsteps approaching, he‟s locked the door and seated himself on the floor in front of it, and it rattles against his back when Louis tries to open it.

  
“The door‟s locked, Zayn,” Louis says, and Zayn can picture his face pinched in annoyance on the other side. “Why‟d you lock the door? Are you taking the piss?”  
  
“I‟m gonna let you in,” Zayn tells him, “but first you have to swear you won‟t laugh.”

  
Pause.

  
“I can‟t promise that,” Louis says. “I don‟t even know what you‟ve done.”

  
“Swear you won‟t laugh!” Zayn says, and God, yes, definitely a new low.

  
“You know I will, though,” Louis says, sounding impatient. “You wouldn‟t have asked me to swear I wouldn‟t if you didn‟t already know I would.”

  
“That doesn‟t even—all right, fine,” Zayn says. Louis is such a bastard sometimes, but he also came when Zayn needed him to, which counts for a lot. “Just. Please, try not to laugh.”

  
“Okay, okay,” Louis relents. “Just open the door.”

  
Zayn gets to his feet, fighting the dread weighing down his stomach. Maybe it won‟t be as bad as he thinks. He hasn‟t actually assessed the damage himself, after all. He unlocks the door and lets Louis in, shutting it behind him.

  
Louis just stares at him.

  
“Zayn,” he says. “Did you make me walk all the way over here to look at you with your cardigan „round your head?”

  
“Just... let me explain,” Zayn says.

  
“Have you suffered blunt force trauma to the head recently?” Louis says.

“Shut up and listen,” Zayn tells him.

  
“Right, sorry,” Louis says, holding both hands up. “Please, do go on.”

  
“I thought I could do that thing like people do in films, you know, where they light their cigarettes on the stove,” Zayn says. “So I came over here, because it‟s the only lounge with a stove in it, and I was bending down close to the flame and my, my hair sort of... caught fire.”

  
“It what?” Louis says, eyebrows shooting up his forehead. “How did that even happen, like, physically? I mean, I know you use a lot of product, but, Jesus.”

  
“Well,” Zayn admits, “I had sort of just sprayed it a bit more than usual.”

  
“Why would you—” Louis cuts himself off mid-sentence, terrible realisation dawning on his face. “Oh my God. Zayn. You were going to go smoke under a smoke detector again, weren‟t you?”

  
Zayn doesn‟t answer.

  
“You have got a problem,” Louis moans. “How bad is it?”

  
“I don‟t know yet,” Zayn says. “I actually haven‟t, um, taken this off since I used it to smother the fire.”

  
Louis faces twists for a moment like he‟s just swallowed something sour, and then his restraint finally cracks and he erupts into laughter.

  
“I‟m sorry!” he says at Zayn‟s scowl, words uneven and gasping between peals of laughter. “I‟m sorry, oh God, I tried, but you set your hair on fire, and then you smothered it with your cardigan, please, I deserve a medal for lasting as long as I did.”  
  
Zayn has to give him credit for that, at least, especially lately. The last few weeks since he and Harry started doing whatever it is that they call their relationship now, it‟s been impossible to wipe the smile off of Louis‟ face. He doesn‟t think Louis even realises that he‟s walking around looking like a big smitten idiot, singing in the corridors, grinning down at his tea for no discernible reason, wearing his most garishly colored trousers. Zayn would tease him about it more if he weren‟t afraid it would send Louis running away from Harry as fast as his mint green legs could carry him. Louis‟ continued happiness is more important to Zayn than giving him shit. Because he is a good friend.

  
Louis, on the other hand, is still laughing, and Zayn is still in crisis mode.

  
“All right,” Louis says, wiping a tear from his eye. “Okay, I‟m sorry. I‟ll shut up now. Let‟s get a look at you.”

  
Reluctantly, Zayn bows his head and lets Louis pull the cardigan off, holding his breath for Louis‟ reaction.

  
“It‟s...” Louis says. “It could definitely be worse.”

  
“What do you mean?”

  
“Well, you could have lost your whole head, for example,” Louis says, and Zayn moans in despair. “Joking! Only joking!”

  
“I‟m going to choke you to death,” Zayn says.

  
“You‟re adorable,” Louis says. “It‟s actually not horrible. I mean, definitely noticeable, and not in a look-at-me-I‟m-so-avant-garde sort of way, just a I-singed-off-part-of-my-quiff way, but it‟s only a bit on one side. It‟ll probably grow back in a month or two.”  
  
“Oh God,” Zayn says, burying his face in his hands. “What am I going to do?”

  
“Zayn, my friend,” Louis says. “I think it‟s time for you to embrace that clandestine lover of yours: the beanie.”

  
Zayn perks up a bit. That doesn‟t seem so bad. “D‟you think they‟d let me wear it while I‟m teaching?”

  
Louis waves one hand dismissively. “Tell them you‟ve got some sort of scalp ailment. Projectile dandruff, I don‟t know. It‟s not like you‟ve ever been called out for any of your other flagrant wardrobe violations.”

  
It‟s a good point. Louis might not be entirely useless after all. “Have you got one?” Zayn says.

  
“What, on me now? No, I‟m not you, I don‟t keep an entire spare ensemble with me at all times in case of some sort of dress code emergency. I think there might be one in my car if you want to go get it,” Louis says, checking his watch, “but I really need to get back to class.”

  
Zayn looks at him piteously.

  
“No. No. Absolutely not, I am not going to get it for you. You brought this on yourself, you pay the price.”

  
Zayn breaks out the puppy eyes.

  
Louis returns a few minutes later with the beanie, and Zayn pulls it on, frowning at his reflection in the door of the microwave. It‟s not bad, but it‟s certainly not good either. He‟s just going to have to lie low for a while until it grows back, then. No more smoking under smoke detectors, no more anonymously turning in the neighbors for failing to maintain their fire escape properly, not for at least a month. He drags his feet back to his classroom. His life is a sham. He is an embarrassment to the Malik name. He wonders how things could possibly get worse.

  
It‟s then that he reaches his classroom and sees the note stuck in the little letterbox on his door.

  
_Dear teachers,_

  
_As you were informed at last month‟s faculty meeting, renovations on the East Wing of the school will begin next week. Be advised that service workers, contractors, and inspectors will be on campus regularly over the course of the next two months to ensure that these renovations adhere to building codes, fire codes, et cetera. All visitors to campus will be issued identification badges and permitted to work during school hours. For the safety of our students and staff, attached is a list of those approved for campus access. We appreciate your cooperation during this exciting time of—_

 

  
Zayn stops reading, frantically turning the page to the list of names. Right there, listed alongside several others from the fire department, is Liam Payne.

  
Of. Fucking. Course.


	10. Ten

-L-

As much as he hates listening to him whine, Louis has to admit it: Zayn has terrible, terrible luck.

  
Under normal circumstances, Zayn‟s terrible luck would dictate that he would somehow manage to never talk to Liam the entire time he was helping with renovations, no matter how hard he tried. Now that he actually doesn‟t want to see him, Zayn having terrible luck apparently means that he‟s going to have to flee Liam every time he turns a corner.

So far he‟s avoided having to actually interact with him, thanks to his clever utilization of storage cupboards and, on one particularly inventive occasion, a bin. Louis is almost impressed.

  
He‟s walking down a hallway with Zayn afterhours about a week after what Niall refers to exclusively as his “Human Torch incident,” when Zayn spots Liam at the other end of the hall, talking with a construction worker and some custodial staff.

  
“Abort, abort, abort,” he says urgently. He grabs Louis‟ arm in a vice-like grip and drags him toward the closest storage cupboard, unlocking it hurriedly before shoving Louis inside and closing the door behind them.

  
“You realise that I‟m not actually hiding from him, right?” Louis says into the darkness. “Or were you planning on burning off half my hair to force me into solidarity with you?”  
  
“Shh, Jesus, can you not shut up for thirty seconds?” Zayn says, pressing him as far back into the cupboard as he can. “Oh, shit, I‟ve stepped in a buck—” He cuts himself off as voices approach.

  
“You don‟t happen to have any adjustable spanners, do you?” says a good-natured voice that can only belong to one person. “I‟d use mine, only I‟ve left my toolbox back at the stationhouse.”

  
“Yeah, we‟ve got one of those,” the second voice says. “I‟ve got to run to a meeting, actually, but here, check in that cupboard on the left. Just leave the key on my desk when you‟re done.”

  
“Thanks,” Liam says, and then there‟s the sound of footsteps approaching.

  
“Oh no,” Zayn hisses into the darkness, “oh shit, oh fuck, he‟s got a key, he‟s coming—”

  
“Ow, that‟s my foot, you wanker,” Louis snaps, “get your elbow back over there, I‟m not—”

  
The footsteps stop right outside the closet door, and the key crunches into the lock.

  
“Fucking hell, Louis,” Zayn whispers, pulling frantically on Louis‟ arms, “hide me, hide me.”

  
Before Louis even has a chance to respond to that, the door opens and the closet is flooded with light. Liam freezes in the doorframe. Louis realises, suddenly and quite vividly, that he is standing with his body flush against Zayn‟s and his hands braced on the shelf behind him. Zayn, for his part, is pressed up against the shelf, one armed wrapped around Louis‟ waist, his face buried in Louis‟ shoulder.

  
Louis stares at Liam. Liam stares back.  
  
“Right,” Liam says, snapping out of his shock, his face a bright pink. “Hello. Sorry.”

  
He shuts the door.

  
“That,” Louis says after a moment, “may have appeared sexual.”

  
“Oh God,” Zayn says, disentangling himself forcefully from Louis. “Oh my God, you have to go after him.”

  
“Me?” Louis demands. “Why do I have to go after him?”

  
“I can‟t do it, Louis, you know I can‟t,” Zayn says in a rush. “Please, go tell him that wasn‟t what it looked like, please.”

  
“What do you want me to say?” Louis says, tripping over a bucket in search of the door. “Sorry it looked like we were having a grope in a supply cupboard, actually Zayn just set his own head on fire in a desperate attempt to get your attention because he thinks you are destined to be together and now every time he sees you he throws himself into the nearest shelter like it‟s a fucking air raid?”

  
“I don‟t care, just please go find him before he gets too far,” Zayn pleads.

  
Louis heaves a sigh. “Fine, I‟ll do it, but let the record show that I continue to be the best friend anyone has ever had.”

  
“Yes, you‟re wonderful, I love you, please go,” Zayn says. Louis‟ hand finally lands on the door handle, and he takes off down the hall as soon as he gets the door open.

  
He manages to catch up with Liam in the next hallway, where he‟s awkwardly checking the names on office doors, looking shell-shocked.  
  
“Liam!” Louis says, and Liam turns to look at him like the proverbial deer in headlights. “Look, about what you just saw, that really was not what it looked like, I swear.”

  
“It‟s okay,” Liam says. “Really, I‟m not going to tell anyone.”

  
“Well, that‟s nice,” Louis says, clapping him on the shoulder. “But I promise you, it wasn‟t anything like what you‟re thinking. Zayn was helping me look for some parts for a piece of the set for the musical I‟m directing, and the light went out, and then I tripped and fell on him. Promise.” Not bad, Louis thinks, for making it up on the spot.

  
“You don‟t have to lie to me,” Liam says, lowering his voice a little. “I don‟t think there‟s anything wrong with it.”

  
“Thanks, really,” Louis says, “but I‟m not lying to you. Zayn‟s my best friend, but it‟s not like that between us at all.”

  
“Okay,” Liam says carefully, and Louis can tell that he‟s not convinced.

  
“Honestly, I mean, obviously he‟s very attractive, and pretty great in bed from what I‟ve heard,” Louis stage whispers, and, oh, Zayn is going to owe him so much for that one, “but I‟ve never thought of him that way. Our egos would never work together. It‟d be a complete disaster.”

  
Liam is staring at him now like he‟s not sure where the hell this conversation is going. To be fair, neither is Louis.

  
“I actually, um, you remember Harry? Tall, curly brown hair, coaches footy?” Liam nods, and Louis plows on. “He‟s actually, well, he and I are. We‟re—”

And, wow, he can‟t say it. Not even to try to save Zayn‟s chances with Liam, even though he just threw out a lie as if it were nothing. He can‟t say the word.

  
“Involved,” he finishes finally. “He and I are involved, you know, personally. So obviously I wouldn‟t be getting off with Zayn in a supply cupboard even if either of us wanted to. Which we don‟t. So.”

  
Liam laughs finally, and Louis exhales. “All right,” he says. “In that case, I‟m happy for you and Harry, and I‟m actually going to go back and get that spanner, then, if that‟s okay.”

  
Louis thinks there is probably a 95 percent chance that Zayn is currently still in that closet, sitting on the floor, rocking back and forth in the dark. Stall, Tomlinson, stall. “Yeah, the whole thing with Harry, it‟s still pretty new,” he says, and God only knows why the fuck he chose the exact line of conversation he definitely does not want to have.  
“That‟s always fun,” Liam says. He‟s smiling like he really is genuinely happy for them and not just being polite, and Louis sees a way out and a chance to pry at the same time.  
“Yeah, are you, um, involved with anyone?” Louis says, unable to resist.

  
“Nah,” Liam says, and since when is anyone this upfront and honest about themselves all the time? He makes it so easy. “I actually haven‟t been with anybody since before I moved here. I was engaged for a while a couple of years ago, but she and I ended up calling it off.”

  
Engaged. Liam is someone who once found a person that he loved so much he asked her to spend the rest of her life with him, and then it didn‟t work out, and yet he still seems to sincerely believe in things like love and romance and being kind to people for no reason. Louis is amazed. This person is like the human antidote to his cynicism. Weird, but kind of brilliant. He wants to poke it.  
  
“Well, I‟m sure the person you‟re supposed to be with is just around the corner,” Louis says cheerfully. It‟s really a shame that nobody but Liam is here to witness his brilliance.

  
Liam laughs again. “I‟m sure they are.”

 

They. They. It could mean nothing, but Zayn is going to die regardless.

  
“Hey,” Louis says, suddenly struck with an idea. “If you‟re looking for a spanner, you must be pretty decent with tools, right?”

  
“Yeah,” Liam says. “I love building stuff.”

  
“Excellent,” Louis says. “I was wondering, I‟ve got a prop door that really needs to be rehinged, do you think you could show me how to fix it some time?”

  
Liam‟s face lights up immediately, as if Louis has just offered him free ice cream and pony rides instead of a chance to do some unpaid manual labor while Zayn hyperventilates in a corner. “I‟d love to! I‟m pretty busy right now, but if you can wait a few weeks I‟ll have a day off and I can come in and fix it for you.”

  
“That would be amazing,” Louis says. Just for the hell of it, he adds, “Zayn suggested you might be good at that sort of thing.”

  
“Did he?” Liam says, and Louis curses Liam‟s perpetually sunny demeanor for making it impossible to tell if he‟s pleased at the thought or just at life in general.

  
“Yeah,” Louis lies easily. “I‟m sure he‟ll be happy to have you on board.”  
  
Liam nods. “Sounds great. I really do need to go get that spanner now, but I‟ve got Zayn‟s number so I‟ll let him know when I get a day off, and we can see about that door.”

  
“My hero,” Louis says, extending his hand. Liam shakes it and then walks off the way he came, and Louis hopes Zayn‟s had the sense to clear out by now.

  
Louis whistles to himself and meanders back toward his classroom, shooting Zayn a warning text that Liam‟s headed back as he goes. He immediately gets six responses in a row, all full of panicked question marks, and he texts back crisis averted and pockets his phone again.

  
He‟s got a little bit of marking left over and some sheet music to copy for tomorrow night‟s rehearsal, but he feels good about how much he‟s accomplished this week as he packs up his things for the day and checks his lesson plan for tomorrow. Even with Zayn in a state of crisis and Harry cutting into his sleep schedule almost every night (whether they‟re together or apart, which is a little disconcerting), he‟s right on track.

  
He‟s just about to turn out the lights and lock up when he hears a tiny knock on the door and looks up to see Harry, and his brain goes pleasantly fuzzy. Harry‟s always such a picture when he‟s fresh from a practice in the snow, and right now he‟s all pink cheeks and red lips and curls under his wool hat, pigeon-toed and dimpling in the doorway.

Louis wants to kiss him warm.

  
“Hi,” Harry says. “Saw your car was still here.”

  
“Just about to leave, actually,” Louis tells him.

  
“I‟ll walk you, then,” Harry says. He leans against the doorframe and waits while Louis wraps his scarf around his neck and flips the light switch, and then steps out of the way to let Louis close and lock the door.  
  
“Shall we?” Louis says, buttoning up his coat.

  
“We shall,” Harry says, and they set off down the hall side by side. “How was your day?”

  
“What, you mean since you last saw me at lunchtime?” Louis says, cheeky, and Harry elbows him. “Actually, it‟s been quite eventful. I‟ve just had to convince Liam that I wasn‟t shagging Zayn in a cupboard.”

  
“What?”

  
Louis tells him the whole story, leaving out the part where he mentioned their little whatever-the-hell their relationship is to Liam, and Harry has his head thrown back in laughter for half of it. “Do you think he‟ll really come work on the set?” he asks.

  
“I don‟t doubt it, knowing him,” Louis says. “He‟s not a real person.”

  
“Oh my God, can you imagine,” Harry says, “Liam in a, a tool belt or something?”

  
“If that happens, Zayn will probably have an actual stroke,” Louis says, already relishing the mental image. “Either that or he‟ll make it through and then go home and furiously masturbate himself to death.”

  
Harry laughs again as they turn down the last hallway, passing one of the dozens of bulletin boards along the way. He nudges Louis and points at the garishly pink poster pinned up next to all the flyers and announcements. “Maybe Zayn can ask him to the Valentine‟s dance.”

  
“Ugh,” Louis groans, rolling his eyes. “Don‟t say those words to me. I‟m trying to block that out of my mind.”

“What, you‟re not looking forward to our chaperone duties?” Harry teases. “Think of all the young love we‟ll get to witness, Lou.”

  
“Think of all the vomit I‟ll get on my nice trousers, Haz,” Louis counters.

  
“I think it‟ll be nice,” Harry says.

  
“You would,” Louis says, and Harry takes it in stride, grinning cheekily at him as he opens the door for both of them.

  
The walk to Louis car isn‟t a long one, and most of the staff has cleared out by now, so he and Harry can just cut straight through the car park. It‟s just as well, because it‟s freezing as they tread through the thin layer of snow and slush covering the concrete. Harry stays with him all the way and then pauses in the empty space next to Louis‟ car while Louis gets his keys out.

  
“Bollocks, it‟s cold,” Louis says. He resists the urge to nose his way under Harry‟s arm and press into the warmth constantly radiating from him, wrapping his arms around himself instead and bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. “So, what‟s up tonight? D‟you want come over?”

  
“I really wish I could, but I can‟t tonight,” Harry says, looking genuinely put out about it. “I‟ve got to do some editing for a project I‟m supposed to be presenting tomorrow.”

  
“Your loss, I‟ve got hot chocolate. And whipped cream,” Louis says, making suggestive eyebrows at him, and Harry looks physically pained.

  
“Don‟t tempt me,” Harry says. “I‟ve got to go be a responsible student.”

  
Louis sighs. “I guess I can respect that.”  
  
Harry gives him a hug and Louis finds it hard to let go when he‟s supposed to, mostly because Harry is a human space heater. He finally does, though, and when his fingers fumble with the door handle a little, he‟s sure it‟s just because they‟re cold. He drops into the driver‟s seat and starts the engine, desperate to get the heater on.

  
“Hey,” Harry says just as Louis is about to close the door.

  
Louis pauses with his hand on the door. “Yeah?”

  
Harry takes a quick glance around the car park, and then he braces one hand on the top of the car and leans down into it and kisses Louis on the lips. It‟s just a peck, and before Louis really has time to respond properly, Harry is stepping back and smiling at him.

  
“Bye,” he says.

  
“Bye,” Louis repeats automatically as Harry shuts the door.

  
He watches Harry lollop off toward his own car, kicking up snow as he goes, and he touches his bottom lip with the tips of his fingers. They don‟t really do casual goodbye kisses like that, or at least they haven‟t yet. That was kind of a first. Hmm.

  
He can feel the car filling up with warmth around him, which is odd, because it usually takes the heater in his shitty car longer to get going. Today is strange. That‟s what he‟s decided. Today is just strange.

  
He puts his car in drive and thinks maybe he‟ll put some brandy in his hot chocolate tonight.

 

...........

 

Thankfully, Louis‟ shift on chaperone duty doesn‟t start until an hour before the end of the dance, meaning the amount of time he‟ll be suffering is minimal and he has plenty of time to choose an appropriate Valentine‟s Day ensemble. These things are important.

  
When he finally pulls into the carpark, he‟s wearing black pants, a white shirt, and bright red braces under his coat. Understated, but thematic nonetheless. Sometimes even he is impressed with how good he is. His sartorial brilliance isn‟t enough to compensate for what he‟s going to have to deal with for the next three hours, though. He spends about two minutes sitting in his car, forehead against the steering wheel, before he musters up the will to get out and trudge into the school.

  
It‟s every bit as bad as he expected, bass audible as soon as he enters the building and clusters of giggly students lining the halls, their inept flirtation attempts visible at twenty paces. Louis studiously ignores them and soldiers on to the assembly hall, taking a deep breath before pushing through the double doors and entering his humid, overcrowded, crepe-paper-bedecked nightmare. Niall, who he spots in the DJ booth, is playing the Cha-Cha Slide. It‟s remixed, but still. Louis is under no illusions about his own sinfulness, but even he doesn‟t deserve this.

  
He spots Zayn lurking by the punch bowl with a fedora perched atop his still recovering quiff, staring despondently into his cup and steadfastly ignoring the three year 10 girls who as far as Louis can tell, are extremely thirsty. Parched, even, by the looks of things. Louis skirts the edge of the dance floor, kicking as many balloons as possible on the way over, and sidles up behind Zayn to clap him on the shoulder.

  
“Cheer up, beautiful, your relief is here!” Louis says, glancing over Zayn‟s shirt, which even in the dim light of the dance looks a vibrant fuschia. “Ah, attempting to keep the youth at bay by blinding them, eh? Not your worst strategy.”

  
Zayn grins as he looks up. “Just because it wouldn‟t suit your complexion doesn‟t mean you have to be bitter about it,” he mutters, draining his cup. “You couldn‟t pull this off if you tried.”

  
Louis clutches at his chest and gasps. “You wound me, Frenchy!”

  
Zayn looks at him blankly.

  
Louis narrows his eyes. “Frenchy? From Grease? She‟s a Pink Lady?” A blank stare. “Come on. Frenchy! She even dyes her hair pink!”

  
Nothing.

  
Louis throws up his hands. “For the love of God, Zayn! „Beauty School Dropout‟? Go back to high school? No bells being rung? God, my references are wasted on the likes of you.”

  
“It‟s too bad,” says a voice from behind him. Louis twirls gracefully and absolutely does not swerve his head around fast enough to give him whiplash to see Harry standing on the other side of the punch table. “Frenchy‟s the one who pierces her ears and tries to teach Sandy to smoke, right? Makes questionable hair decisions? Sorry, Zayn, but you‟re definitely Frenchy,” he smiles.

  
“First off, I am definitely one of the attractive greaser types. Secondly, you laugh it up all you want, I‟m still the one who‟s done with babysitting for the night,” Zayn says, shrugging on his leather jacket. Three different girls step on their dance partners‟ feet. “Louis, you‟ve got punch duty. Keep filling up glasses so there are plenty ready. Make sure no one spikes it and do your best not to die of boredom or secondhand embarrassment, yeah?”  
  
Louis nods as seriously as he can. “I shall not fail you, Zayn.” He grabs at his jacket sleeve as Zayn passes him. “My brother. My captain. My king.”

  
Zayn shakes him off as Harry giggles uncontrollably. “You are so, so weird. Get off me so I can observe this holiday properly and go get drunk alone in my flat.” Finally free of Louis‟ clutches, he slumps off toward the door. Whatever. He loves the attention, and Louis will not hear otherwise.

  
“Happy Valentine‟s Day to you too, Zayn!” Harry calls after him saccharinely. Zayn spins around, gives them a salute, and then is gone.

  
Harry turns back to Louis with a smile. “Truly tragic.”

  
Louis shrugs. “Are you surprised? This is the worst holiday ever created. It‟s designed to make people feel bad about themselves. It‟s silly at best and evil at worst. And God knows Zayn loves any opportunity to mope. On today of all days he actually has an excuse,” he says, pouring himself a cup of punch.

  
Harry smirks. “Says the man in red braces.”

  
Louis arches a single eyebrow over his cup. “They‟re thematic. And you‟re one to talk.” Now that he has a chance to truly look Harry over, Louis is torn between respect and derision. Harry‟s wearing a white blazer over a pink shirt, topped off with a red bow tie. He‟s clearly made a few trips to the punch bowl himself, his lips stained dark pink.  
Okay. Maybe respect and derision aren‟t all Louis is feeling. He takes a large gulp of punch and nearly gags on its cloying sweetness.

  
“What, you don‟t like the look?” Harry asks, all outstretched arms and mock hurt. He gives a quick spin, holding his jacket open. Louis considers throwing the rest of his drink on him, but decides that getting anyone wet is only going to make things worse.  
  
He just snorts instead. “You look like a human love heart,” he says, putting down his own cup and picking up empty ones to fill.

  
Harry smiles. “Maybe that‟s what I was going for.” He plants both hands on the table and leans across, close in to Louis. “Be mine?”

  
By the time Louis has picked up the half-dozen cups he‟d dropped on the floor, Harry is halfway across the dance floor, smirking as he separates couples dancing a bit too closely.

  
Louis doesn‟t envy him his particular chaperone detail, but Harry seems to be having fun with it. Every time Louis looks up from pouring punch or handing cups to sweaty teenagers, Harry is up to something else, apparently completely immune to shame. A man after Louis‟ own heart.

  
He‟s distracted from his rather pathetic mooning by a group of students coming up for drinks. As he hands them out, he sees one girl gesture towards Niall onstage and say, “I can‟t believe they managed to get him to DJ,” in a loud voice to her friend.

  
Louis looks up at the stage and then back to them. “It‟s just Niall,” he says, confused. The girls look at him like he‟s grown two heads. Has Niall become the fit one while Louis wasn‟t looking? What does that make Zayn, then, the other fit one?

  
He hears one of them sarcastically stage whisper “just Niall” as they walk away, and is spending a minute ruing the day he became the third most attractive member of his friend group when Harry regains his attention. Louis has to bury his head in his hands when he spots him splitting up an overly amorous couple by aggressively doing the robot immediately between them. Harry laughs when he sees him, then waggles his eyebrows in the direction of another grinding couple to his left. Louis makes a face at the pair, and then mouths Moonwalk at Harry. Harry grins, and immediately moonwalks directly at, and then through, the shocked duo. The couple separated, he turns and gives Louis an exaggerated thumbs-up. Louis points at another set of enthusiastic dancers on the other side of the hall and mouths Chicken dance, miming it a bit to make sure he understands. Harry throws up a crisp salute and sets off across the dance floor.

  
Louis is spending his Friday night at work, in a hall that smells of sweat and Lynx, surrounded by pink crepe paper, and he can‟t stop smiling.

  
After an hour or so, the last song plays, and the lights come up. Niall takes off his headphones and leans into the microphone. “All right kids, you don‟t have to go home, but you can‟t stay here.” He pauses, and then leans back in. “And you should probably just go home.”

  
Harry walks across the dance floor, weaving in between the last students straggling out. “Did you successfully prevent punch spikage?” he asks, pouring himself another cup.  
“I did my best,” Louis smiles.

  
“Damn,” Harry says, taking a sip. “I could use a drink after that, to be honest.”

  
“Ah, yes, your quest to preserve the dignity of our fair students. It seemed successful from here.”

  
“Oh, no doubt. I think several might have more dignity leaving than when they entered.”

  
“It wouldn‟t surprise me.”

  
Harry just smiles at him slightly stupidly over the table, and Louis shudders to think what his own face must look like.

  
“So,” Harry says suddenly. “Are you all done here?”  
  
Louis sighs. “Tragically, no. Niall and I are both on clean-up duty, because we‟ve done terrible things in past lives and this is our punishment.”

  
Harry‟s lips quirk upwards. “Well, I‟m sure you deserve it, but Niall seems pretty innocent to me.” He stops for a moment. “Unless you‟re looking at it from the perspective of a kebab, I suppose.” He turns to look at Niall on the stage, packing up his turntable. “Hey, Horan!” he shouts.

  
Niall looks up. “What do you want, Styles?” he yells back.

  
“Get out of here, I‟ll take care of your equipment,” Harry shouts. “I‟ve got nothing better to do, and I‟m sure you‟ve got a hot date with a pint or five.”

  
Niall throws up a V, laughing. “Fuck you, Harry. Thanks, mate. This is mine, but everything else goes in the AV closet.” He finishes closing up the turntable case, hops off the stage with it, and heads out the door. “You two have fun,” he croons as the door swings shut behind him.

  
They‟re alone.

  
Harry turns to look at Louis, and Louis thinks about butterflies and jars and museums and why someone might enjoy the pin that holds them to a page.

  
He swallows that thought and smiles, looking around the hall at the wilting balloons and fluorescent lights. “I bet this is where you bring all the girls,” he says, looking back up at Harry.  
Harry gestures expansively to the room. “How could I not? So atmospheric,” he says. He drops his arms. “And yet you‟ve had a table between me and you all night.” He raises his eyebrows. “I‟m starting to feel rebuffed.”  
  
Louis huffs a laugh and moves to circle the table, but Harry holds out an arm. “Wait, wait,” he says, backing up. “Let me earn it.” He turns and lopes toward the stage, vaulting up to the DJ booth and taking out his iPod. Apparently he has a plan. Louis isn‟t sure why he bothers being surprised anymore.

  
Louis crosses his arms and smiles at the ground. “You‟re ridiculous,” he says, as soft piano chords begin to fill the room. Harry hops off the stage and runs back over, coming around the side of the table.

  
He holds out his hand to Louis. “May I?” he asks. He dips his head in mock politeness, but the question in his eyes is real. Louis feels the warmth of his palm before he registers moving his hand, sees the happiness on Harry‟s face before he knows what he‟s saying yes to.

  
“You know you‟ve already seduced me, right?” Louis says, as Harry pulls him out into the middle of the hall, kicking aside balloons as he goes. “You‟ve sealed the deal, this is totally unnecessary.” The floor is sticky with God knows what; Louis hopes it‟s mostly punch. “And somebody could come in.”

  
“Humour me,” Harry says, tugging him along, and Louis lets himself be pulled. Once they reach the center of the room, Harry slips his hands around Louis‟ waist and draws him close.

  
Louis puts his arms up around Harry‟s shoulders, muttering “Of course you‟d want to lead.” Harry smiles and ducks his head, shushing him. The music fills the room, a woman giving voice to words Louis has heard before.

  
Wise men say  
Only fools rush in.

  
Louis searches Harry‟s face with his eyes, but Harry isn‟t looking at him, his eyes downcast. Louis finds himself confronted with the fan of Harry‟s eyelashes, the slight curve of a smile ghosting over his mouth.  
  
Suddenly looking is too much, and Louis finds himself pulling Harry closer, resting his chin on his shoulder. They sway in circles slowly, Harry spreading one hand across Louis‟ lower back and lifting the other to thread his fingers through Louis‟.

  
Louis finds himself wanting to tell Harry that he‟s glad that he‟s leading, that Louis couldn‟t lead because he‟s never really slowdanced before. He wants to tell Harry that he skipped his own prom, faked sick because he couldn‟t ask the person he really wanted to go with. His throat is choked with words, stories of every wedding he never went to because the taste of others‟ champagne always turned sour in his mouth. He wants to tell Harry that no one has ever wanted to stand up with him in front of anybody else.  
He wants to tell Harry too much, so he kisses him instead, pulling back from Harry‟s shoulder and pressing their lips carefully together. Harry makes a soft noise that Louis swallows and lets go of his hand, bringing his own back to Louis‟ waist to pull him close, impossibly closer. Louis raises his free hand to Harry‟s face, grazing his cheek with all five fingertips before sliding them into his hair.

  
Harry smiles into the kiss and pulls back slightly. “D‟you still hate Valentine‟s, Lou?” he breathes, rubbing his nose against Louis‟.

  
Louis grins. “Yes,” he says. “I guess I don‟t hate you, though.”

  
He can feel Harry‟s laugh against his mouth. “Fair enough,” Harry says, before drawing him back in. “I don‟t hate you either,” he whispers, and it‟s Louis‟ turn to smile into the embrace.

  
They stay like that for a long time, two figures in the center of the empty hall, swaying together until the last notes of the song have long faded away.

  
Finally, Louis heaves a sigh. “So, as lovely as this is,” he says, pulling away from Harry. “We still actually have to clean this place up.”

Slightly dazed, Harry looks around at the mess that surrounds them. “Right. That. Shit,” he says, dropping his head onto Louis‟ shoulder. “I may not have thought this through.”

  
“Hey,” Louis says, nudging Harry‟s head back up. “Race you.”

  
“What?”

  
“I‟ll take that side,” Louis says, sliding one hand down to the small of Harry‟s back and gesturing toward the far side of the hall with his chin, “you take this side, and whoever finishes first wins.”

  
Harry smirks. “And what will be my prize when I destroy you?”

  
“You‟ll get to shag me sooner,” Louis says, digging his fingers in. Harry hums at that, low and pleased.

  
“Loser gives the winner a blowjob,” Harry says. He gives Louis one last quick peck on the lips, and then he‟s off across the floor and scooping up deflated balloons by the handful. Louis tries to do the same, but he‟s laughing too hard to be very effective, too amused to even fight back when Harry starts throwing debris from his side over into Louis‟. Louis has always been a competitive sort, but he thinks this is one fight he might not mind losing.

-Z-

Niall Horan niallerrr@gmail.com 9:52 AM (32 minutes ago)  
to me, Louis, Harry

  
have you lads seen this yet

  
http://menmedia.co.uk/manchestereveningnews/news/s/1590235_local-fireman-saves-family-of-four-from-burning-house/rss=yes  
246

  
Zayn Malik djmalik@gmail.com 9:55 (29 minutes ago)  
to Niall, Louis, Harry

  
NO OMFG  
HE IS PERFECT :)))  
XXX

 

  
Louis Tomlinson loutommo@gmail.com 10:09 AM (15 minutes ago)  
to me, Niall, Harry

  
honestly i thought you googled him once an hour, zayn, i‟m disappointed  
this is actually really impressive, though. we should take him out for drinks to celebrate and then zayn can give him a congratulations blowjob, yeah??  
xx

 

  
Zayn Malik djmalik@gmail.com 10:11 AM (13 minutes ago)  
to Louis, Niall, Harry

  
shut up lou  
i hate you  
>:(  
x

 

  
Harry Styles styleshaz@gmail.com 10:12 AM (12 minutes ago)  
247  
to me, Louis, Niall

  
this is so cool!! I‟m with Louis ;) Zayn, you should call him..  
xx

 

  
Niall Horan niallerrr@gmail.com 10:13 AM (11 minutes ago)  
to me, Harry, Louis

  
agreed. pints!

 

  
Zayn Malik djmalik@gmail.com 10:15 AM (9 minutes ago)  
to Niall, Harry, Louis

  
i can‟t, it would be too weird :/ aha  
x

 

  
Zayn Malik djmalik@gmail.com 10:15 AM (9 minutes ago)  
to Niall, Harry, Louis

  
it‟d be weird, right?? :///

 

  
Zayn Malik djmalik@gmail.com 10:15 AM (9 minutes ago)  
to Niall, Harry, Louis

  
what would i even say if i called him?? :/ aha  
x

  
Louis Tomlinson loutommo@gmail.com 10:17 AM (7 minutes ago)  
to me, Niall, Harry

  
tell him that you and your mates want to take him out for drinks and blowjobs. i don‟t see why you‟re making this so complicated babe  
i know haz and i are both free tonight, what about you nialler?  
x

 

  
Niall Horan niallerrr@gmail.com 10:20 (4 minutes ago)  
to me, Louis, Harry

  
for beer and watching zayn try to get off with liam? i‟m always free.

 

  
Zayn stares down at his phone. The email notifications have stopped coming, and now it‟s just him and his text message inbox, waiting each other out.

  
Usually if he were going to plan an outing with Liam, he‟d give himself weeks of preparation, plenty of time to work up his courage and practice his smolder in front of the mirror and come up with the perfect scenario. This is different, though. He's got a time constraint to deal with, so he can't afford to go through his normal process. It's now or never.

  
After a dozen drafts, Zayn finally comes up with a message that doesn‟t sound completely and hopelessly daft or pathetic.

  
heard you‟re a hero! the lads and i want to take you out for drinks tonight to celebrate. are you free? :) xx

  
He closes his eyes and hits send before he has a chance to overthink it.

  
He has plenty of time to think about it after it‟s sent, though, and he comes up with twelve different ways he could have phrased the text better and about a hundred reasons he never should have sent it at all.

In fact, he‟s so so focused on how stupid the invitation was that he doesn‟t even consider what to do if Liam says yes.

  
Which he does.

  
Zayn stares blankly down at his phone, at the yea sounds brillllllll where shud i meet youuuu?? and tries to formulate a plan. He‟s normally so good at plans, but right now he‟s got nothing.

  
He pulls it together enough to send Liam Louis‟ address and the name of a bar they can go to afterwards, telling him to meet up with them at Louis‟ flat first. Then he drafts a massive email to the lads demanding that they be on their best behavior, realises that it provides Louis a point-by-point instruction manual on how to drive him mad, and deletes it. Instead he just sends a mass text and hopes for the best.

  
HE‟S COMING OUT W US 2NITE :DDD LOU‟S AT 9 THEN MOVING TO THE STUDY NO MENTION OF BJS PLS xx

  
The next five hours are spent in a haze, as Zayn retreats to the comfort and safety of panicking about his appearance. He showers twice, just to be sure, and tosses the entirety of his wardrobe onto his bed. Thankfully enough of his hair has grown back that he can go without a hat with enough artful tousling, but the rest is the hard part. Eventually, after cycling through two weeks‟ worth of outfits, he settles on his best jeans and a slouchy black top that's just loose enough to show off his collarbones. He checks himself out in the mirror and decides he looks like a sexy waif. Dickensian chic. Liam rescues people for a living, vulnerability probably does it for him, right?

  
He gets all the clothing re-folded and off the bed—you can never be over-prepared—just in time to throw on a jacket and drive over to Louis‟ place. He fidgets the entire way over, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel and constantly checking his hair in the rearview mirror. It‟s going to be fine. Everything will go great, Liam will love him, and in years to come they will celebrate this date as their anniversary, and they‟ll have cheesecake with chocolate sauce on top and Liam will let him lick it off his abs and—okay, wow, now is not the time for that train of thought.

  
As he pulls into the carpark of Louis‟ building, he spots Liam‟s SUV—ahh, the memories—and his heartbeat drops the bass. One last glance at the mirror, and then he‟s locking his car and taking the steps up to Louis‟ flat two at a time.

  
Louis opens the door with a grin and stands aside to let Zayn enter. “You‟re just in time for shots,” he says brightly. Zayn would protest, except then he sees Liam standing there with the rest of them, wearing a white shirt and waving, and he really, really needs a drink.

  
“Hi Zayn!” Liam says, taking the shot that Niall hands him with a slightly dubious look. “Thanks for inviting me, this is wicked.”

  
“Thanks for not letting those people burn to death,” Zayn replies, which. Okay. Not his best start, probably.

  
Liam just smiles and shrugs. “Just doing my job,” he says, and Zayn is so distracted by how much he adores him that he actually forgets to be embarrassed. He catches Harry nudging Louis in the stomach out of the corner of his eye, but then they‟re all taking shots and hey, who gives a fuck.

  
They spend an hour there at Louis‟, drinking and taking turns getting crushed by Niall at Guitar Hero. Zayn focuses mainly on not stroking Liam‟s forearms. Or staring at his mouth. Or touching his collar. Maybe drinking right away was a mistake. Thankfully there are plenty of distractions, as Harry keeps half-jokingly suggesting body shots, and Louis seems to have decided that the best way to shut him up is to bite him. Liam just laughs at them, though, and Zayn knows that even if he weren‟t already drunk he‟d still feel just as warm and happy, all his favorites in a room together.

  
They‟re tipsy enough that nobody even seems to realise Harry‟s called them a taxi until it‟s there and they all have to rush out, running down the stairs with their jackets still half on and piling into the back of the taxi. Zayn is the kind of drunk that makes transportation seem instantaneous, and the only thing he remembers of the ride over is the way the city lights slid across Liam‟s face. Well, he also remembers Harry licking Niall‟s face, but he‟s not entirely sure why that happened, and since Louis just doubled up in laughter he figures he doesn‟t have to worry.

  
When they get to The Study there‟s a massive line, but the bouncer seems to recognize Niall and lets them all in right away. “How the hell do you know everyone?” he hears Louis ask Niall, who just sort of shrugs.

  
It seems that more people waiting outside than there are inside because it‟s not too crowded yet, and they take advantage and head straight to the bar. Clinging to his buzz for courage, Zayn turns to Liam. “What d‟ya want? I‟m buying.”

  
“You don‟t have to—” Liam starts.

  
“No,” Zayn says, cutting him off and allowing himself to put his hand on his arm. Mmm, arm. “Heroes don‟t buy drinks. What‟ll it be?”

  
Liam grins and nudges him with his shoulder. Bliss. “Just a beer, I think. Don‟t want to get too pissed.”

  
“Good idea,” Zayn says, because all of Liam‟s ideas are good. He nudges him back, because he can, dammit, and he‟s going to get as much physical contact in as possible before he sobers up too much. He flags the bartender down and orders two lagers, trying not to wince when he hears how overpriced they are. It‟s a worthy cause, and to be honest most of the time he goes to bars he‟s the one getting bought drinks, so it‟s only fair.

  
All five of them crowd around a single table together and settle in for a while, shouting things at each other above the noise and taking turns fetching refills. It‟s loud, but it‟s good company, and Zayn feels like it‟s going well. It‟s going really, really well. He loses track of how long they‟ve been there, so he‟s not exactly sure when Niall breaks off and heads for the billiards table he‟s been eyeing all night, pint in hand and eager to separate some unsuspecting patrons from their money.

  
When it‟s Harry‟s turn to get the next round, Zayn finds himself alone with Liam and Louis staring at them from across the table. Normally that would make Zayn break into an anxious sweat, but Louis seems to want to play the wingman tonight, just chiming in to keep conversation moving whenever Zayn gets completely tongue-tied. Granted, that means Louis is keeping up about half of the conversation, but still, Zayn appreciates that he isn‟t taking this particular opportunity to humiliate him.

  
Louis keeps getting quieter and quieter, though, and eventually Zayn realises what‟s distracting him. Harry‟s still at the bar, but he isn‟t alone—there‟s a tall bloke in a Chelsea shirt who looks entirely too pleased to be talking to him. Zayn doesn‟t like the look of him, but he likes the way Louis‟ eyes are narrowing less.

  
“Excuse me,” Louis says, putting his pint glass down heavily. He slides his chair back and stands up. “I‟ll just be a moment.”

  
“I‟m actually going to run to the toilets, myself,” Liam says, getting up as well. “Zayn, will you be all right here?”

  
“What? Yes,” Zayn says, suddenly finding himself alone at the table. He takes a moment to watch the lines of Liam‟s back as he walks away, and then turns his attention to the drama at the bar. Louis is approaching the bar, settling in a little farther down than Harry and his new friend and hailing the bartender.

  
It‟s interesting to watch, actually, because he knows Louis probably thinks he‟s passing himself off as nonchalant, but Zayn can see the tense set of his shoulders and the cold way he‟s eyeing the situation. He knows Louis has a wide streak of protectiveness and possessiveness, but in all the time they‟ve know each other, Zayn‟s never seen him get jealous over a guy. Food, parking spaces, the right to wear braces? Sure. A guy? Never. Mostly because he‟s never seen Louis get attached enough to someone to even care if he fucked anybody else. Once again, it seems like Harry is the exception.

  
The man in the Chelsea shirt laughs at something Harry says and leans in to squeeze Harry‟s hip, and that‟s it, Louis abandons his spot at the bar and walks over to introduce himself into the conversation. He smiles at Harry when he sidles up, sliding a hand over his lower back, but if it‟s meant to mark his territory, the man either doesn‟t notice or doesn‟t care. Louis says something, but the man waves him off.

  
Louis says something else, and Zayn can tell just from the set of Louis‟ chin and the slant of his mouth that it‟s one of those patented Tommo one-liners that‟s designed to utterly decimate a human as viciously and succinctly as possible. The man finally does drop his attention from Harry at that, and Louis takes a step away from Harry and closer to him. It‟s suddenly clear that the man is several inches taller than Louis, even taller than Harry. Louis wobbles a little but doesn‟t back down. The part of Zayn‟s brain that isn‟t screaming oh shit is pretty impressed that Louis can manage such a look of pure, icy disdain after so many beers.

  
The next few things happen very, very quickly:

  
One, Louis says one last thing, and the man pushes him so hard that he falls over the barstool behind him.

  
Two, Liam steps out of the toilets.

  
Three, Niall puts down his beer.

  
Four, the song on the speakers next to Zayn changes to “Helter Skelter.”

  
Five, Harry yanks the man around by his shirt and clocks him in the mouth.  
  
Someone screams near the bar and Zayn is elbowing his way through the crowd as Liam closes in from the other side, and shit, Zayn is too fucking drunk for this. He can still see Harry and Louis over the heads of the crowd, the bartender yelling at them as Louis hauls himself upright, roughed up but in one piece.

  
Satisfied that Louis isn‟t going to bleed out on the floor, Zayn turns his attention to the next most pressing issue: the angry Chelsea fan dragging himself up off the floor. He‟s bleeding from a cut lip and looks murderous, and judging by the way Harry is nursing his hand, that first blow was more blind luck than anything. Shoving people aside, Zayn can‟t help but wish his friends had chivalrous impulses that didn‟t lead to anyone getting the shit kicked out of them.

  
Liam gets there first, sliding between Harry and the bleeding man with his hands raised, the very picture of mediation, and Zayn would write a sonnet comparing him to Benvolio if he had the time. Or if that particular play ended differently. God fucking dammit, when did the entire population of the greater Manchester metropolis find their way between him and the bar? The bartender is still yelling, but Zayn doubts that he‟ll be able to shut this down before it gets worse, and he needs to fucking get over there. He spills at least three pints of lager on his way through the crush and doesn‟t apologize for a single one.

  
He finally breaks through the crowd in time to hear the trail end of Liam‟s “all right, lads,” but Chelsea isn‟t having it, fisting a hand in Liam‟s t-shirt and growling something at him through bloody teeth that changes the set of Liam‟s jaw and—oh. Hmm. Zayn had always thought “seeing red” was a metaphor, but judging by the way his vision is burning at this idiot‟s hands on Liam, he guesses not.

  
He‟s snapped out of it by a literal SNAP—and looks over to see Niall, manic grin on his face, holding two halves of a billiards cue that he‟s apparently just broken over his knee.

  
“Let‟s fucking go, big man,” he shouts, gleefully staring down Chelsea and completely ignoring the eyes of every other person in the bar fixed on him.  
  
Chelsea hold on Liam‟s shirt loosens and his jaw falls slightly open. “What are you playing at, mate?” he demands.

  
Niall reaches up and turns his hat around so the brim faces backwards and jumps up and down in place, shaking his arms out. “You want a fight? I got your fucking fight, ya cunt,” and he tosses one half of the pool cue to Zayn, who catches it two-handedly more out of reflex than anything else.

  
“Um,” Zayn says. He can hear the bartender calling the police.

  
Chelsea dropped Liam‟s shirt completely now. “You‟re fucking mental,” he says, and Zayn adds a silent co-sign. The crowd that had been watching is fleeing quickly, apparently not eager to be around for whatever happens next.

  
Niall throws his head back and lets out a banshee laugh. “Mate,” he snickers, “I‟m fucking Irish.” He licks his lips, and to his credit, Chelsea only trips over one barstool as he beats his retreat to the bar‟s back room.

  
“We should go,” Liam says. “Now. We should go now.” Zayn nods vehemently, feeling much more sober than he did three minutes ago.

  
They spill out into the street on a wave of noise and adrenaline, Zayn practically dragging Niall by the collar of his shirt. He may have just saved their arses, but he‟s also fucking batshit and Zayn‟ll be damned if he lets him out of his sight. Harry and Louis are in the middle of some kind of argument, and Liam is bringing up the rear, walking backwards to make sure that nobody comes at them from behind.

  
“You were flirting with him,” Louis is saying as he stumbles a couple of feet down the sidewalk.

  
“I wasn‟t flirting with him, I was just being nice,” Harry says, following after him.  
  
“Right, by flirting with him,” Louis says.

  
“You‟re jealous,” Harry says, and Zayn doesn‟t have the time or brain power to try to intervene, especially not when he‟s too busy holding Niall in a bear hug from behind in an attempt to wrangle him away from the club.

  
“Let me go back in!” Niall says, still clutching half a billiard stick, which Zayn distantly thinks they should maybe get rid of because it could probably count as evidence. “I haven‟t gotten to trounce anybody in ages, c‟mon—”

  
“Shut up, you lunatic,” Zayn grunts. He looks at Liam, who‟s standing nearby, looking sort of lost. “I am so fucking sorry, I swear to God things aren‟t normally like this when we go out.”

  
“It‟s really fine,” Liam says with a laugh. “Kind of exciting, actually.”

  
“You are incredible,” Zayn says before he can even think about stopping himself. “We need to get out of here before the police show up. Where‟s—?” He turns around and finds that Harry and Louis have stopped arguing and are now ravishing each other on the hood of a parked car instead. “Oi! Get off of there, Jesus, you don‟t even know whose car that—”

  
The question is answered at that moment when Chelsea exits the bar flanked by two equally large friends, spots Harry and Louis, and freezes in his tracks.  
“You‟ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Zayn and Chelsea say in unison.

  
“Shit,” Louis says, almost falling over as he scrambles upright, and Chelsea‟s friends are closing in.

“Taxi!” Zayn yells, shoving Niall at Liam and throwing his arms out for the fucking godsend of a taxi that has just turned onto their street. The driver stops by the curb and Zayn yanks the door open and shoves Niall into the passenger seat, slamming the door in his face.

  
Niall‟s got the window down and he‟s shouting something that sounds like “shower of cunts” at the men on the sidewalk while Liam slides into the back seat of the cab first, and it‟s a sign of how out of control everything has gotten that Zayn doesn‟t even panic over having to squeeze in next to him. Louis shoves Harry in next, and then he climbs directly into Harry‟s lap and immediately picks up where they left off.

  
“Jesus Christ,” Zayn says, just barely managing to avoid getting one of Louis‟ knees to his crotch. Louis is sitting astride Harry‟s hips, head brushing the ceiling of the cab and looking exactly the opposite of concerned about anybody else in the car witnessing this event.

  
“Where to?” the driver says. He seems entirely unfazed by the proceedings, and Zayn feels a fleeting sense of thanks that at least he won‟t report them to the police.

  
It takes him two tries to get the address out right, though, because right next to him Louis has got his tongue in Harry‟s mouth and wow, even in the middle of everything else, the sight of Harry‟s hands sliding down Louis‟ back to his arse is really fucking distracting. Louis arches into Harry‟s hands and grabs at Harry‟s hair and kisses him hard, and one of his feet is on Zayn‟s knee, and Zayn has no fucking idea what to do with himself.

  
Niall is still ranting from the front seat, on and on about “could‟ve fucking taken „im” and “know who I fucking am,” apparently choosing to ignore the fact that Louis is giving Harry an extremely intimate lap dance two feet away from him. Zayn‟s thankful for that too, though, because it‟s the only noise in the car other than Harry and Louis‟ heavy breathing and the wet sound of mouths.  
  
The adrenaline has finally started to subside, and on his other side, he can feel Liam sitting very, very still, and Zayn wants to apologize again or promise to make this up to him or even just make a joke about the whole thing but he can‟t, physically can‟t bring himself to look at him. He‟s too drunk to know if he‟s fucked this up completely, but fortunately he‟s at least drunk enough that the whole situation is kind of hilarious. In a hysterical, oh-God-what‟s-happening-how-is-this-my-life sort of way, yes. But hilarious.

  
Harry and Louis have abandoned all restraint by now, hands everywhere and hips grinding and muttering things to each other between kisses that Zayn can only catch bits of, “yeah” and “God” and once “mine.”

  
“D‟you lads need a condom back there?” Niall says, grinning over his shoulder. Harry doesn‟t even respond, and Louis only spares a moment to take one hand off of Harry and throw Niall an obscene hand gesture before returning it to the inside of Harry‟s shirt.

  
Liam has pulled out his phone and is apparently attempting to occupy himself, but Zayn is close enough to see the screen and all he‟s doing is scrolling up and down through his contact list again and again and again. Zayn feels like laughing, but he also feels like dying, because Liam is right there and this is weird, and Zayn really should not be turned on by two of his best friends getting each other off but he‟s drunk and he hasn‟t been laid in a long time and he‟s riding the sexual frustration from being with Liam all night and Harry and Louis are both fit and he‟s only human, all right?

  
“You‟re so fucking hot,” Harry mumbles, sounding drunker than ever, and Louis practically fucking purrs at that, the vain bastard. Zayn‟s trying not to look, honestly, he really is, but Louis leans in and drags his tongue up Harry‟s throat and it‟s really, really hard to look away.

  
“Like that, babe?” Zayn sees Louis say against Harry‟s neck. He grinds down hard, and the noise Harry makes in response is absolutely pornographic. Louis‟ mouth drops open a little like even he wasn‟t prepared for that one, and then he moves his mouth up to Harry‟s ear and says, “Gonna fuck you as soon as we get home.”  
  
There‟s a muffled clatter from Zayn‟s other side as Liam fumbles his phone onto the floor of the cab. Zayn buries his face in his hands and prays for deliverance.

  
The taxi drops them off at Louis‟ flat, and Zayn gives the driver an extra ten pounds and a heartfelt apology before they all take on the stairs, which is no small feat in their current state. Louis has got Harry by the hand, and the instant they make it inside, he pulling Harry toward the bedroom.

  
"Have you got a condom?" Louis mumbles to Harry, half-tripping over a lamp table and not keeping his voice nearly low enough. "We used the last—"

  
"Do we need one?" Harry interrupts impatiently. Zayn is very thankful they're almost to the bedroom, because this conversation is far beyond anything that needs to be public knowledge. Louis stumbles to a stop momentarily to squint at Harry, like maybe he's seeing two of him and he's trying to pick out which one is the real one. "I haven't—not with anyone else," Harry says. "Have you?"

  
Louis grabs a fistful of Harry's shirt and says, "I haven't wanted to fuck anybody else since I met you."

  
There's a full second in which Harry looks absolutely gobsmacked, and then he says, quite eloquently, "Fuck," and Louis grins and yanks him into the room and slams the door behind them.

 

“Wait for it,” Niall says, holding up one finger. He counts backwards silently, mouthing three, two, one—

  
As if on cue, distorted guitar comes flooding from Louis‟ bedroom stereo through the wall, the bass turned up so loud that it rattles the dishes in the kitchen cabinets.

  
“God, The Weeknd? Really?” Zayn says. “Does Louis even know who that is?”  
  
“Harry makes their sex playlists,” Niall tells him, pulling one of the pillows off the couch and throwing it on the floor before flopping down on top of it. “He asked me for suggestions once.”

  
“Why didn‟t he ask me?” Zayn says, pouting.

  
“Because he doesn‟t want to fuck to Drake on vinyl,” Niall says. He‟s kicked back with his hat pulled down over his face, so he doesn‟t see the face Zayn makes at him.

  
“I like Drake,” Liam chimes in. “I like Usher better, though. Mostly his slow jams.”

  
Niall extends a fist for Liam to bump it and says something appreciative followed by something about mixtapes, but Zayn is busy trying very, very hard to process that input in this context without curling into a ball on the floor.

  
He fetches a six pack of beers out of Louis‟ refrigerator instead. And so The Weeknd plays on, and Niall orders a pizza, and they all stay up for another hour drinking and talking about pointless things while Harry and Louis fuck in the next room, and it‟s completely ridiculous, but somehow it still feels natural, like this was always going to happen anyway. Maybe that‟s just because he‟s drunk.

  
A stray thought about his novel strikes him as he watches Niall try to goad Liam into shotgunning a can of Coke. A band, he think. Not singers. The book should be about a band. He hopes he can remember it when he sobers up.

  
He passes out on the couch, and when he wakes up in the morning, Harry is cooking everyone pancakes in his underwear with bruises on his knuckles and love bites all over.  
“Not a bad night,” Harry says, smiling sleepily at Zayn. He gestures with his spatula to where Liam is curled up against the opposite arm rest, fast asleep.

  
Zayn smiles back. “Nah, not bad.”


	11. Eleven

-L-

It all starts with an offhand comment while Louis is lying dazed on his living room floor, his brain a mess of post-orgasm delirium.

  
“That was fun,” he says to no one in particular. He feels like he may have rugburn in the morning.

  
“Yeah?” Harry says, rolling onto his side to perch his chin on Louis‟ chest. Harry came first this time, so he‟s had more time to recover.

  
“Yeah,” Louis says sleepily. “It‟s fun with you.”

  
It‟s something he‟d probably never say in his right mind, but he‟s too sapped of energy to care at the moment.

  
“Good,” Harry says.

  
Louis reaches up and tangles his hand in Harry‟s hair, scratching lazily against his scalp. Harry smiles, closing his eyes and leaning into the touch.

  
“It‟s been a long time since I had fun with this, actually,” Louis comments.

  
Harry frowns without opening his eyes. “Why?”  
  
“I don‟t know,” Louis says. He can feel his eyelids getting heavy, and he gives up all hope of making it to the bed. He‟ll deal with the back pain later. “Just stopped trying, I guess.”

  
It‟s just a small admission in a moment when his guard is down. He doesn‟t mean anything by it, honestly, but he should have known that Harry would take it as a personal challenge.

  
He‟s sitting in his classroom a few days later, engrossed in a book while his students take an exam, when his phone buzzes in his pocket. It‟s a text message from Harry, and he smirks a little at the screen when he reads it.

  
_can‟t wait to see you later sweetcheeks :) let‟s order food and stay in, i‟m feeling toppy today x_

  
It‟s not unusual at all for Harry to get a bit suggestive in the texts he sends Louis while he‟s working. He likes it, actually, likes the thought of Harry sitting in the studio at school waiting for his prints to dry, typing cheeky things to Louis while surrounded by other students. Louis‟ own students are currently absorbed in their exams, too intimidated by his ironclad anti-cheataing policy to let their eyes stray far.

  
He thumbs open the reply box.

  
_are you? ;) x_

  
He puts his phone back down on the desk and returns to his reading. The minutes pass quietly, and Louis is so distracted by his book that he almost misses Harry‟s reply when it comes. He opens up the message with the hand that‟s not holding his page, skims it, and promptly knocks over his tea.

  
_gonna fuck you while you suck on my fingers like you don‟t know if you‟d rather have my cock in your arse or your mouth xxxxx_

  
Louis swears under his breath, scrambling for stash of fast food napkins in his desk drawer as his entire class looks up to see what the commotion is.

  
“Sorry!” he says, voice higher than usual. “Minor tea disaster! Finish your exams!”

  
He makes a frantic sort of shooing motion at them and starts trying to mop up his tea before it soaks through all the papers on his desk, mentally cursing the day that Harry Styles was born as he goes. When he‟s satisfied the situation is contained, he pulls the message up again and types out a reply without daring to glance up to reread.

  
harold pls

  
That night they order in Thai and Harry makes good on his promise, fucking Louis into the mattress with two fingers in Louis‟ mouth. It‟s good, and it‟s fun, and Louis realises that Harry‟s doing this on purpose. He‟s trying make things fun.

  
It‟s a realisation that makes his heart do weird things in his chest when he‟s lying in bed that night, and he can‟t afford to let himself think about it too deeply. He can deal with it as long as it‟s a game, like the two of them running up and down the pitch at midnight. He can handle competition. Hell, he‟s good at it. And he is not about to let this incident go, for lack of a better word, untopped.

  
He plans his next move carefully, choosing a home football match that he knows Harry‟s been anticipating for weeks. He‟s been to enough games by now to know exactly when to make his way down the stands, when the team has cleared out of the locker room for good to finish warming up before the game starts while Harry is the only one left inside.  
Harry looks up from his clipboard when he hears the door open and smiles when he sees that it‟s Louis. Louis had been counting on that, knowing that Harry is always so pleased when Louis comes to his matches that he‟d never suspect nefarious purposes. Sometimes he thinks his line of work underutilises his specific skill set. Maybe he‟d be better suited for war strategizing, or professional chess. Sexy, sexy chess.

  
“Hello,” Harry says. “Come to wish me luck?”

  
Without further ado, Louis knocks the clipboard out of his hands, shoves him back into the lockers, and wipes the smile off his face.

  
The kiss is rough, dirty, and Louis knows he‟s caught Harry completely off his guard by the way his hands cling helplessly to his shoulders. Harry‟s mouth is open in shock, and Louis takes advantage and pushes his tongue inside. Harry makes a noise high in his throat and kisses him back, ever the quick study, and Louis doesn‟t waste any time, grinding his hips hard against Harry‟s. They make it another minute, all tongues and teeth and hips, and then he feels Harry already half-hard against him and starts unfastening his trousers.

  
“Louis,” Harry says, turning his head away from the kiss. It turns out to be a grave mistake on his part, because Louis uses the opportunity to move his mouth to that place on the side of Harry‟s neck that he knows drives him absolutely mad. “Louis,” he says again. He‟s trying so hard to keep himself together, but his hands are tugging on Louis‟ hair in a way that means he wants him everywhere but off. “I‟ve got to be out there, like, now.”

  
“I know,” Louis says. He leans up and kisses Harry again, biting down on his lip as he finishes undoing his trousers.

  
Harry breaks off, face flushed. “What are you doing?”

  
“I‟m living out every changing room fantasy I‟ve ever had,” Louis says, and then he‟s on his knees, and he knows Harry can‟t say no, not when he puts it like that.

He makes it last long enough that Harry‟s swearing at him and bucking shamelessly into his mouth, too hot for it to stop but desperate to finish before the game starts. Every time Louis can tell Harry‟s about to come, he pulls off and kisses him, letting him taste himself as he growls and whines for Louis to please, God, almost there, you fucking bastard. When he finally does come, it slams out of him, leaving him boneless and dazed and barely able to support himself against the lockers.

  
Louis just wipes his mouth politely on his sleeve, drops a chaste kiss on Harry‟s slack mouth, and strolls toward the door.

  
“Good luck!” he tosses over his shoulder cheerfully, and then he‟s gone.

  
He takes the steps up the stands two at a time, feeling supremely pleased with himself as he settles back down into his seat. When Harry jogs out onto the field a few minutes later, he‟s only a little red around the cheeks, hair damp on the back of his neck in a way that only Louis could see for what it really is. The head coach doesn‟t tell him off for being late, but he doesn‟t look happy about it either. Harry glances up to the stands, and Louis waves pleasantly to him.

  
He‟s definitely, definitely going to pay for this one later. But it was worth it.

  
His time of reckoning comes a week later. They‟ve both got to go to some faculty retreat on a Saturday, mostly just a four-hour seminar on grade scales and team building in the reception hall of some hotel. It‟s boring as hell, but at least Harry and Zayn and Niall are there too, and there‟s a free buffet at their lunch break, so he can‟t complain. Harry wanders off while Louis is busy piling food onto his plate, and he‟s just tucking into his fish filet when his phone goes off.

  
The screen announces it‟s a call from Harry, and Louis furrows his brow, wondering what reason Harry could have possibly found to call him since he last saw him five minutes ago.  
  
“Hi,” Harry says when Louis answers. Louis can hear his voice echoing faintly and knows he must be in the men‟s room, which, what the hell.

  
“Can I help you?” Louis says, rolling his eyes.

  
“Dunno, it depends,” Harry tells him. “What are you wearing?”

  
“Are you serious?” Louis says a bit too loud, and half the table full of teachers turns to look at him. He switches gears, trying to play it off as some kind of professional phone call. “I believe you already know the answer to that question.”

  
“Too many clothes, that‟s what,” Harry says, voice slung low, and Louis bites down on the pulse of heat that sends through him. “Although I do appreciate the way your arse looks in those trousers.”

  
He purses his lips, keeping his face resolutely neutral. “Thank you.”

  
“You look so gorgeous today, Lou,” Harry continues. “Makes me wanna put my mouth all over you.”

  
“I‟m, uh,” Louis stammers, and Zayn is definitely staring at him across the table now like he knows something isn‟t on. “I‟m not sure that‟s feasible at this moment in time.”

  
“Wish I could be sucking you off right now,” Harry says. “I love having your cock in my mouth.”

  
Louis swallows. “The feeling is mutual, I‟m sure.”

  
“I love it when you pull my hair when I‟m going down on you,” Harry goes on. He‟s speaking the way he always speaks, long and loose and impossibly slow, and it‟s nearly unbearable when he‟s saying things like that. “I love it when you come down my throat. I love it when you fuck my mouth, and then the next day my lips are all red and my voice is shot and everyone can tell what I‟ve been up to.”

  
Louis can feel his face burning at this point, and he has to close his eyes for a moment to compose himself, silently praying to whatever cruel god controls his life for his erection to go back down just as fast as it came up. He clears his throat. “Is that so,” he chokes out.

  
“Yeah,” Harry says. “God, I want to fuck you so bad right now.”

  
“I‟m sure, ah,” Louis says, crossing his legs uncomfortably, “I‟m sure I could fit you in at some point.”

  
“Jesus,” Zayn groans, pushing his chair out and walking off to the buffet. Louis wants to crawl under the table and die.

  
“I bet you‟re hard right now,” Harry is saying on the other end of the line. “I bet you‟re sitting there in front of everyone thinking about letting me fuck you, and you‟re so hard in your posh trousers that all you want is for me to tell you to come in here so I can suck your cock. That what you want me to do, Lou?”

  
Louis is seriously going to throw himself in front of a train. “Yes.”

  
“Hmm,” Harry says, “too bad.”

  
And then he hangs up.

  
Louis just stares at his phone for a full minute, unable to deal with what just happened to him. Ambushed by phone sex. Phone sex ambush. Public phone sex ambush, in front of everyone he works with. If he lives through this, he is going to make Harry wish he hadn‟t.  
  
Harry comes bouncing back up to the table a minute or two later, smiling like an innocent little cherub as if nothing at all has happened.

  
“Hi!” he says, dropping down into the seat next to Louis and slapping his upper thigh in a way that he must known is excruciating. “Did you miss me?”

  
And, yeah, he is an absolute shit, and Louis wants to throw his drink at him or brain him with a dessert plate, but mostly he just really, really wants to have sex with him. It‟s almost annoying how nothing ever tops how much he likes Harry, how much he wants to touch him and be around him and make him laugh. And fuck him. That too.

  
Louis suffers through the rest of the day by spending as much time with Zayn and Niall as possible, but it‟s all he can think about, a constant recording of everything Harry said playing on loop in his head. At the end of the day, it‟s finally just the two of them while Louis gives him a ride back to his flat. Louis makes it about ten minutes out with Harry sitting in the passenger seat singing along to the radio before he snaps and pulls over into some isolated back alley.

  
He doesn‟t even give Harry a chance to ask what he‟s doing, just unbuckles his seatbelt and leans across the console and yanks Harry into a punishing kiss.

  
He breaks off quickly, finding his patience at its absolute end.

  
“Get. In. The back.”

  
Harry complies without hesitation, thankfully, and they have sex in the backseat even though Harry‟s too tall for Louis‟ tiny car and Louis‟ too worked up to last long. There‟s a late February chill in the air, and by the time Harry comes, the windows are all so fogged from their body heat that Louis can‟t even see through them. Harry laughs and draws a smiley face on the glass, and Louis feels younger than he has in years.

It goes on like that for weeks, the two of them competing to see who can come up with something better or dirtier or more ridiculous. Louis retaliates for the phone sex by surprising Harry with a blowjob while he‟s on the phone with Gemma, and the next day while they‟re at school late afterhours putting the first coat of paint on some of the set, Harry strips him down right there on the newspapers and leaves green and yellow handprints on his back. It escalates, one thing after another, desks and bathrooms and emails Louis has to delete as soon as he reads because they‟re too filthy to risk anyone else seeing them. Louis knows he‟s being reckless, but most of the time he‟s enjoying himself too much to care, and when Harry laughs as he comes, it‟s hard to think about what could go wrong.

  
It‟s the parts in between, though, that are really starting to get to him. Zayn‟s been his best friend for years, but there‟s this other space that Harry fills in that‟s just as close. With the exception of one time when Louis finds out what having a grope in a supply closet is really like, Louis‟ free period is still an hour of ribbing and laughing and Harry forcefully importing Beyonce‟s entire discography into his iTunes. Some days they don‟t have sex at all. Sometimes they only touch each other in little brushes or slaps, only smile at each other over curry. Some nights they just fall asleep on the sofa halfway through whatever they‟re watching, Louis exhausted from work and rehearsals and Harry catching up for how early he always has to get up for class.

  
One day Harry has to shoot some landscapes for a project, so they take a day trip to a beach a few hours away, Harry riding along with his hand out the window. Louis half expects him to turn it into some kind of mad road trip sex extravaganza, but it turns out to be just the two of them and huge skies and the Beatles on the radio. They leave their shoes in the car and walk up and down the beach barefoot, just talking, and then Harry gets out his camera and Louis gets to watch him at work. Harry‟s always taking pictures, but usually they‟re just for himself, just because he wants to. This is Harry really getting serious, lining up his shots carefully, a little crease of concentration between his eyebrows, and it‟s kind of fascinating. Louis sits on the rocks and watches, happy to be there and to be with Harry. They swagger back the the car as the sun sets with their arms around each other, and Louis kisses him then, because he‟s only human and Harry looks sunned and glorious and made to be kissed.  
  
There are days like that, days when Louis is so happy that he feels like his guard is starting to slip. He tries to hold that feeling down with both hands, but it‟s not easy. More than once he contemplates skiving off for the day and calling a supply teacher so he can surprise Harry at school, thinking of how nice it might be to sit under the trees with Harry‟s head in his lap. He catches himself in a moment of weakness looking at toothbrush racks with space for two toothbrushes instead of one, and he abandons his shopping in the middle of the aisle and takes himself home immediately.

  
The game continues, though. At some point, sometime after the time in the bathroom of Zayn‟s flat and the heavy petting behind the science building, there are a few days of quiet, and Louis thinks maybe it‟s finally over. He‟s almost grateful, because he‟s supposed to be getting his cast off-book by the end of the week, and it‟s getting harder to concentrate on things that aren‟t Harry.

  
He should have known better than to let his guard down, though. He‟s in the middle of a rehearsal when a text from Harry comes in, and he knows he should probably ignore it, but he can‟t.

  
_got a surprise for you when you get home ;) xxx_

  
It‟s not the first time Harry‟s let himself in and waited for Louis to get out of rehearsal. Harry can‟t always be there to help, and besides, he technically isn‟t needed for when they‟re just running through scenes and songs, so it‟d probably start to look a bit off if he kept showing up just to hang around Louis. Louis started keeping a spare key under the mat a few weeks ago, since rehearsals have started running later as it gets closer to opening night. He knows, logically, that it would be easier to just give Harry a key, but he knows what that kind of gesture means and he just. Can‟t do that.

  
Louis texts him back, keeping an eye on his Rizzo as she walks through her choreography.

  
_i‟ve got a few more hours here, sorry :( x_

  
It‟s past ten by the time he gets everything sorted and locked up, and the drive home seems to last forever. He makes himself take the steps up to his flat at a normal pace, forcing down the anxiousness ringing in his ears. Harry knew what he was doing when he sent that message, knew it was going to wind Louis up, and this is a game, after all.

Louis intends to win, whatever that means.

  
He hesitates for a second at the door, unsure of how to prepare himself, before finally letting himself in.

  
There, on his sofa, is Harry, watching telly and slouching over a bag of crisps, wearing a French maid costume.

  
Louis just stands there in the doorway, staring at him.

  
“Hello,” Harry says casually, scratching his head. The frilly little headband he‟s got on shifts a little in his curls. Louis is sleeping with an idiot.

  
“Really?” is all Louis can say.

  
“I was dusting earlier, but you took too long and I got bored,” Harry tells him. He shoves another crisp into his mouth and stretches. “I guess you win this round.”

  
Louis buries a laugh in his hand. “Where did you even get that?”

  
“Already had it,” Harry says with a shrug, and he would. Louis should have known. If anybody has got a French maid costume stored in their wardrobe for no good reason, it‟s Harry. “Fancy dress party a couple of years ago. It was quite the hit.”

  
Louis rolls his eyes and drops his bag by the door before wandering into the kitchen. Harry follows him without purpose, leaning against the fridge, watching Louis get a kettle ready.  
  
He looks at Harry standing there in his kitchen, scratching his stomach through his absurd costume, and he wonders if he‟s losing his mind, because it actually looks good on him. The plunging neckline is obviously meant for cleavage, but on Harry it just draws the eye to the lines of his collarbones, the hollow of his throat, the hard planes of his chest. The corseted waist makes his shoulders look impossibly broad and his torso look even more impossibly long, tapering down to narrow hips and the slim sway of his back. He‟s far too tall for the skirt so it barely covers half of his arse in the back, and Louis can see lacy white knickers underneath.

  
Harry catches him looking and winks, cocking one hip out to the side, which, wow, nope.

 

Louis turns away with a shake of his head, reaching for a mug. “Are you just going to keep that thing on all night?”

  
“Why?” Harry purrs in his best mock-sexy voice. He bends over and plants his hands on the kitchen table, arching his back and thrusting his arse up in the air like he‟s posing for a pin-up. “Do you like it?”

  
And God help him, yes, he does like it. He has no fucking clue why, but for some reason that tiny bit of white lace on Harry‟s football-toned arse is doing things for him that it really shouldn‟t be. But more than that, he likes Harry, unbelievable Harry who put that thing on because he knew it would make Louis laugh. Louis‟ never really had somebody like Harry in his life, someone who just likes to make him happy and stops at nothing to do so, who gives him things like this. Part of him wonders if this is where the two sides come together, if this is where sex and whatever you call the other thing between them overlap into something bigger, if that‟s what‟s been happening all along.

  
“Maybe I do,” Louis says.

  
Harry lowers his lashes, playing exaggeratedly coy. “Then why don‟t you do something about it?”

Louis looks at him, at his pink lips and his legs that go on for days, and he knows that Harry‟s won.

  
Harry watches as he takes his glasses off and leaves them on the counter, and then Louis‟ moving forward and Harry‟s turning to meet him and they snap together like gravity. It‟s always like that with the two of them, push and pull until things line up just right. He can feel Harry smirking against his lips, and Louis bites down on it until Harry‟s mouth falls open and he can get his tongue inside.

  
He pushes Harry backwards by the shoulders and follows with his own body, laying him out flat on his back across the table. One of Harry‟s legs comes up to hook around him, and Louis reaches up to hold Harry‟s hands above his head, keeping him pinned with hands and mouth and hips. Harry uses his leg to leverage his body up into Louis, rolling his hips, and Louis bites off a kiss to swear into the side of Harry‟s neck.

  
Not to be outdone, Louis shoves one hand under Harry‟s skirt—Harry‟s skirt, honestly, this is going into the Louis Tomlinson Sex Hall of Fame as the most ludicrous fucking thing he has ever been turned on by—and wraps it around Harry‟s cock. He‟s more than halfway hard, trapped inside the thin material of the knickers, and he moans around Louis‟ tongue at the touch.  
Harry kisses him like he always does, like it was his plan all along, and Louis finds that it still hasn‟t gotten any easier to handle. He‟s not quite sure how Harry, flat on his back in a ruffly outfit, manages to make him feel like he‟s the one completely out of control. He moves his hand up higher, flattening his palm over Harry‟s stomach before reaching into the knickers to stroke him properly. The damp lace rubs against the inside of his wrist as his hand moves, and Harry‟s grinding his hips in earnest now, matching Louis‟ pace.

  
This is good, but he wants more, wants Harry begging and filthy, wants to make him feel something he‟s never felt before. He wants to do things he hasn‟t wanted in so long, and it scares him, but he wants it so badly.  
  
He pulls his hand out of Harry‟s ridiculous skirt and steps back, and Harry makes a noise of confused disapproval before Louis grabs his shoulders.

  
“Thank God,” Harry says, letting Louis turn him around, and Louis still can‟t quite get over how eager Harry always is for him. He widens his stance, letting Louis‟s knees fit between his, and that would be it for Louis if he didn‟t already have something else in mind. Instead, he smooths a hand over the silk covering Harry‟s hip and down the side of one thigh, then sinks to his knees.

  
“What‟re you—” Harry starts, looking over his shoulder, but Louis presses his mouth against the lace fabric of the knickers and Harry‟s voice dies in his throat.  
“Trust me,” Louis says, and Harry is bent over Louis‟ kitchen table wearing a damn French maid costume, but somehow when he nods in response, for a moment the look in his eyes manages to be completely serious.

  
Louis pulls his eyes away from Harry‟s, focusing on pushing the skirt up and hooking his thumbs around the top of the knickers. The lace feels so delicate under his fingers, and Louis can‟t make sense of why it turns him on so much. Maybe it‟s just that almost nothing about Harry is delicate, not even the curling corners of his mouth or the way he looks when he wakes up in the morning. He‟s all boy limbs and wild hair and heavy eyelids, but then there‟s these frilly knickers and there‟s that look of trust in his eyes and Louis doesn‟t know what else to do but give him everything he can.

  
He tugs the knickers down just far enough and drags his fingertips over the exposed skin, feeling goosebumps rise under his touch. He can feel the tension in Harry‟s muscles, the anxious restraint of waiting for Louis to close the space between them, and Louis wonders if anyone‟s ever done this for Harry before. He hasn‟t done it himself in years, not since the first boy he ever fell in love with. He hasn‟t wanted to do it since, but he wants to do it to Harry. God, he wants it.  
  
He leans in and ghosts his mouth over Harry‟s balls first, because that‟s safe, they‟ve done that before. Harry shivers at the heat of Louis‟ breath, so close but not quite touching him yet, and when Louis finally presses his lips against the sensitive skin there, he can hear Harry swallow a small whine. It‟s getting to him, Louis can tell, the anticipation of what he‟s about to do, and Louis can‟t suppress a grin at that. This round may go to him after all.

  
The first time his tongue makes contact with Harry‟s skin, he can feel it roll all the way down Harry‟s spine. His hands move from Harry‟s thighs back up to his arse as he works with the flat of his tongue, and, fuck, he knew Harry had a thing for his mouth, but his hips are already shifting restlessly and Louis hasn‟t even gotten to the good part yet.  
He drags the tip of his tongue up with agonizing precision, spreading Harry apart with his thumbs, until finally, finally he hits his destination. Harry gasps and swears at the same time, a breathless, shuddering fuck, and Louis slides his tongue over the spot again, teasing.

  
“Jesus,” Harry grinds out, and Louis can tell how much it‟s costing him to just stand there and take it. “Lou.”

  
Louis keeps moving, palming the swell of Harry‟s arse as he draws circles with his tongue. He can tell by the way Harry can‟t stop squirming that this has to be his first time, and that just gets Louis even hotter, knowing nobody else has ever made him feel this way. This is his. He darts his tongue out and just barely breaches him, and Harry‟s hand slams down hard on the table, a groan tearing out of his throat.

  
Part of him wants to make Harry talk again, wants to listen while he tells him exactly what he‟s feeling, but the fact that Harry hasn‟t said anything else in minutes is doing enough for him. He glances up for a moment and Harry‟s got his chin tucked against the lace ruffles on the shoulder of his stupid costume, turned as much toward Louis as he can manage, hair falling in his face and his mouth moving wordlessly. The realisation that Harry can‟t, physically can‟t say anything goes straight to his dick.  
  
He starts working Harry open with his tongue, feeling himself getting harder with every pleading noise out of Harry‟s mouth. He slides one finger up alongside his tongue, swirling it through the wetness there before pressing in gently. Harry pushes back into it, desperate for something more, and Louis slides his tongue farther inside.  
His own spit is enough to get Harry started, but he‟s going to need more than that if they‟re going to really get anywhere. He leans back just far enough to open the rubbish drawer and snag the tube of lube in there, popping it open and skipping right over the part where he wonders how he got to the point in his life where it‟s necessary to keep lube in every room of his flat.

  
Harry watches over his shoulder, and Louis makes deliberate eye contact with him as he slicks his fingers. It‟s killing him, Louis knows, not being able to touch him at all, to have to hold himself back. Louis thinks about teasing him again this time, but he knows he can‟t. He‟s too far gone now.

  
He pushes two fingers inside, fast and easy, and Harry‟s hips jolt forward at the sudden fullness. Harry‟s already pretty slick, and Louis knows it‟s not going to take much longer to get him ready, can already feel his body giving him more room to work with. It‟s just as well, because Louis‟ still fully clothed and he can feel his shirt starting to stick to his back and if his cock doesn‟t get some attention soon he‟s probably going to die. He works in a third finger and sets a quick rhythm, and Harry rocks back into it, angling his hips so that Louis‟ fingers drag across the right spot every time.

  
“Lou,” Harry says, finally finding his voice again, “please, Lou, I wanna touch you.”

  
Louis closes his eyes, taking a steadying breath, and slides his fingers out.

  
“Get down here, then.”

The last thin cord of Harry‟s self-control snaps at his words, and suddenly he‟s being knocked backwards, Harry‟s hands coming up to fist in the back of his hair as he crushes their mouths together. He lands sprawled on his back with Harry straddling his hips, and he‟s been in this position before, but he never really imagined it would happen again on his kitchen floor with Harry dressed as a French maid. Harry sits up, dragging his hands down to Louis‟ chest and sliding his braces off his shoulders. His headband is hanging off the right side of his head.

  
“You look ridiculous,” Louis says.

  
Harry just smiles down at him and, God, Louis doesn‟t remember how to want anything else. “Only for you,” he says.

  
He bends and kisses Louis again, making it last while he tugs Louis‟ shirttails out and gets the buttons undone. Neither of them really have the patience to get Louis all the way out of his shirt, so Harry just leaves it open and switches his attention to getting his trousers out of the way. He manages to deal with the fastenings without taking his tongue out of Louis‟ mouth, but then he pulls back just as he‟s about to get his pants down.

  
“Er, hang on,” Harry says, getting clumsily to his feet. Louis is about to protest when he‟s confronted with the sight of the knickers sliding down Harry‟s long legs and he decides that he should probably just shut up forever. Harry steps out of them and kicks them off to the side before climbing back down on top of Louis, bare arse settling on Louis thighs, and Louis has never hated trousers so much in his life.

  
Harry finds Louis‟ waistband again, and Louis feels like he could cry from relief when Harry‟s hand finally closes around him. Harry gives him a couple of rough jerks just to tease, and Louis figures he probably deserves that much, but then he‟s lifting his arse up to pull Louis‟ trousers and pants down farther and Louis feels the cool tiles under his skin.  
  
Harry reaches behind them and extracts the lube from under the table, wasting no time before slicking Louis up. Neither of them are going to last long, and they both know it. Louis‟ just glad Harry‟s already open and ready, because he needs to be inside of him, like, right now. Harry lifts himself up and takes a hold of Louis‟ cock, and Louis grabs onto his thighs to steady him.

  
“Ready?” Harry says, looking him straight in the eyes.

  
Louis digs his fingers into Harry‟s skin. “Yeah.”

  
Harry sinks down in one continuous, controlled motion, eyes shut and mouth hanging open as Louis slides into him. It‟s so good, that first tight push and then the smooth heat after, and Louis wants to throw his head back and let the feeling take over but he can‟t tear his eyes away from Harry. He sees the moment when he hits that spot inside of him, sees Harry‟s breath hitch and his chest strain at the silk, and then he bottoms out and Harry‟s arse hits his thighs.

  
They stay like that for a moment, Harry‟s hands braced on Louis‟ chest and Louis trying to catch his breath, and then Harry rolls his hips, and every nerve in Louis‟ body flashes white hot.

  
It‟s frantic after that, both of them swearing and gasping and moving together. Louis‟ hands move from Harry‟s thighs to Harry‟s arse, sliding up under the skirt and guiding him to meet each thrust. Harry leans back, supporting himself on hands, and the view is something Louis knows he‟ll never forget as long as he lives, the long line of Harry‟s body and the muscles in his shoulders, black silk and white lace and the way his throat moves every time Louis pushes back in. He can‟t actually see the place where their bodies meet, blocked by Harry‟s skirt, but somehow that makes it even better.

  
He can feel his orgasm starting to build low in his gut, and he wants Harry with him, wants them to tip over the edge together. He shifts one of his hands off of Harry‟s arse and brings it around to the front, and when he grabs his cock, Harry jerks forward, body curling over Louis in a tight arc. He sinks his fingernails into Louis‟ shoulders as Louis‟ hand moves under the skirt.

  
“Close,” Harry pants, dropping his head down to kiss Louis‟ neck messily. “So close, Lou.”

  
“Come on,” Louis says, and it‟s too much, he can‟t make it any longer, can‟t feel Harry tight around him and wet on his throat and hard and heavy in his hand any more, “come on, Haz.”

  
He gives his wrist one more twist and Harry goes tense and it hits them both at the same time. Louis‟ hips buck up off the floor and he comes with a shout, and Harry‟s right there with him, face buried in his shoulder.

  
It feels like it takes them ages to come back down. When Louis‟s brain starts functioning again, he realises that Harry has collapsed on top of him. He knows this not just because of the weight and the feeling of wet silk sticking to his stomach, but because there is a doily headband poking him in the face.

  
“That,” Louis says finally, lying on the kitchen floor mostly clothed with a grown man wearing a French maid costume in a sex coma on his chest, “was unexpected.”

  
“You‟re telling me,” says Harry‟s voice from somewhere in the vicinity of his shirt collar. Harry moves at last, rolling off of Louis and onto the floor next to him. He stretches his legs out and smiles at the ceiling like he‟s content with the cosmos. “Lacy knickers. Duly noted.”

  
“Shut up,” Louis says.

  
They manage to get up eventually, after few more minutes on the floor trying to summon up the energy to move. Harry pulls the dress off over his head and Louis shucks his clothes the rest of the way off and they leave it all in a pile on the bathroom floor. They shower and brush their teeth together and then Louis turns off the lights and they fall into bed.

  
It‟s been a month or so since Harry started sleeping over like this, and it‟s not like it was something Louis had ever planned on. He just remembers one night in his bed, fucked out and happy and tucked up warm against Harry‟s chest, hearing himself say, “Stay.” And Harry did.

  
Tonight, Harry presses a soft, minty kiss to his lips and settles in behind him, and Duchess curls up between their feet. Louis realises as he feels Harry‟s body relax into sleep against him that he has no idea which of them is winning.


End file.
